


stray like you

by contagionangel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (NOT one of the main dudes!), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Collars, Hurt/Comfort, Ignis And The No Good Terrible Work Day, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kimi wa Pet AU, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contagionangel/pseuds/contagionangel
Summary: Ignis pays for getting far in his career young with overwork and stress. Now, he's struggling to come to terms with the upheaval when his boyfriend betrays him and the relationship crashes, a work crunch could spell disaster for the company itself, and there's just not enough coffee in the city to keep up with his tension and burnout.His boss suggests he get a pet to cope.Despite himself, when he finds a dark-haired young man passed out in the snow on his doorstep, he might end up with just that...





	1. temperatures dropping

The morning trains are crowded because Ignis overslept; he’s not out exceedingly-early as usual, and he’s got to contend with a box balanced on his hip the whole way, as well.

 

It’s a heavily overcast day. He should have checked the weather, should have grabbed his heavier coat and scarf and gloves, but he was distracted by the dull throbbing pressure building in the hollows of his temples and in a tight band around the back of his skull. He’d woken up in white sheets and a white comforter in a big bed that might, in hindsight, be a bit too big-- and a bit too cold. He makes a mental note to see if a few more blankets and pillows help.

 

Then he remembers the article he’d dismissed as nonsense, in a magazine he’d only read for its feature on one of the idols the company had been managing.

 

It’d been about sleeping habits. Reaching out for extra pillows, it had said, was a mark of loneliness.

 

His jaw tightens. So does the band of pressure around the back of his head. He closes his eyes and gripped the cold metal pole tighter for balance, fighting the urge to rest his forehead against something that goodness-how-many strangers have touched prior.

 

There’s an immediate petty revulsion rising in him at the idea of those extra pillows, now. Shame.

 

Something about being packed among the commuting crowd has him feeling faceless and canned in a way that the emptier hours never do.

 

Once he gets there, Gladio’s at the security desk again, relegated to it for some reasons and purposes unknown. Ignis doesn’t look at him in his haste to get to the sleek, modern in-building cafe, although undoubtedly the overgrown man will be dying for someone to talk to or something to do at this time of morning. He doesn’t--

 

He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, anyway. But he’s got to, hasn’t he?

 

His fingers tighten around the edges of the box, denting the cardboard a bit. He can feel hot stares on his back and shoulders as he passes. Neither of them could think of a better place for this, anyway; it’ll be over soon enough.

 

Tuil is behind the counter and pales when he spots Ignis. There’s a line, and Ignis knows where he could safely leave the box without any unnecessary dramatics about the matter, but Tuil waves a coworker over to the register and ducks out from under the counter.

 

It had always stricken Ignis as rude, but potentially a bit romantic, as well. Now he watches it feeling like something sour is trying to eat its way out from his gut.

 

There’s plenty of booths free, the line all looking to take their caffeine fix with them to clock in. Ignis dearly wishes that he could do the same instead of peer at Tuil over the box, not knowing what face to make or what he’s supposed to say, what he’s expected to feel.

 

“You look-- good. You look like you’ve been doing good.” says Tuil. Ignis can’t help but stare for a moment, because he _feels_ like shit. Tuil, at least, looks reasonably uncomfortable and miserable, but not enough. Not nearly enough, for a man who can’t bluff over cards, and honestly, Ignis worries himself sick at night wondering over potential signs he could have-- should have-- caught.

 

He doesn’t want to let Tuil have the dignity of knowing that, now.

 

“Well,” Ignis hears himself saying, flat, knowing it’s a mistake as he passes over the envelope with the key, “now I know why you never asked to move in.”

 

There’s a tremor in Tuil’s hand as he passes the key to Ignis’ flat over in exchange. “I like my apartment,” he says.

 

Ignis had, too.

 

“And I suppose your young man is doing well?” asks Ignis. It comes out polite enough, but his face is stiff. He doesn’t really want to know.

 

Tuil smiles. “He is! We are. He’s sweet,” says Tuil. “Real affectionate. I never have to wonder where I stand with him.”

 

“I’m glad.” says Ignis.

 

He feels bile in his throat. He hadn’t thought he’d left any room to wonder, himself. Had he been-- unloving?

 

They just look at each other for a long moment.

 

“It wasn’t always easy for me.” says Tuil.

 

“I know.” says Ignis.

 

“You work long hours.” says Tuil. “People talk about how I got my job. They--” Tuil lowers his voice a moment and glances around. “--well, nobody expects me to be wearing the pants with someone like you. And we don’t exactly have a lot in common. I’m--”

 

He swallows. It’s the most miserable he’s looked since the breakup, and it’s _this_ . “You like all those fancy foods and weird films, you’re using your degree and on your way up, and I’m just an average guy, you know.” he says. “I spent a lot of time wondering if you even _liked_ me. Even-- even in bed, you barely react. I hope you like the next guy better, ‘cause it was kind of like dating a robot.”

 

It’s followed by a halfhearted laugh.

 

Ignis thinks of the ring box in his top drawer at home, and the times when he used to fight for the chance to get off of work early to cook dinner, or just to order pizza in and stay up late watching the comedies Tuil loves with cheap beer. Tuil groaning over his puns, Ignis creeping up behind him to wrap arms around his waist and hook a chin over his shoulder.

 

The feeling of another face against his, lips brushing, gentle presses of skin on skin, hitching breaths-- all soured now, of course.

 

He just makes a noncommittal humming noise in response.

 

Tuil’s face crumples. “Can’t you pretend to at least be a little more torn up about this, for my sake?” he asks.

 

Ignis takes a deep breath and stands.

 

“I think you’ll find I owe you nothing at all.” he says evenly. “Good day to you.”

 

The pain’s bloomed into throbbing with a sharp stab behind one eye. Perhaps, he thinks, he needs to get his glasses prescription updated.

 

He finds himself grateful that he can, at least for a day, get away with doing much of his work on autopilot-- there’s a lot of paperwork and a lot of cold-calling, but he’s got a few hours before there’s any requisite gladhanding, any scripted polite smiles and smoothing-over as he goes. The office is too loud and too bright.

 

There’s murmurs every time his back is turned. Yes. Far too noisy. For example, some people seem to think he’s far away enough that he can’t hear them.

 

“-- _one of the idols, right?_ ” he hears. “ _Good for him. I’d always felt bad. I mean, he’s handsome and he’s good at what he does, but_ I _wouldn’t want to be in a relationship with a hardass like that_.”

 

“ _You know he got him the job. I wonder if he stayed because he felt obligated_.”

 

“ _They graduated at the same time, right? Imagine how_ that _must have felt_.”

 

It’s not the way that Ignis likes to think, but--

 

It isn’t fair. He was loyal. He loved. He did his best, didn’t he? He held Tuil’s hand and listened through his insecurities, and helped him fill out applications until he gave up, and made time for date nights together until he gave up, and met him halfway and farther over and over again until he walked in on Tuil naked and tangled with some wide-eyed twinky stranger.

 

They didn’t need more money. He’d tried to make more time. He’d been in love.

 

Hadn’t he?

 

His head gives an especially sharp throb. Maybe, he thinks, it’s the weather.

 

When it gets to be too much, he excuses himself to one of the more isolated restrooms to wash his face and compose himself. In the unforgiving light, he can see the spots he missed shaving behind his jaw, the way his hair is a bit limp and lopsided, how red his eyes are behind his glasses.

 

To him, he looks like a mess.

 

The joke had been passed around before, at obligatory after-work drinks on occasion, that Ignis was a machine that’d been built for crunching numbers, a terror and a taskmaster. A robot.

 

He’d thought it was a joke.

 

His vision is blurring a bit to one side, and he tries to steady himself, fight down the nauseating pain in his head. He wonders dully, for a moment, what it is he does it all for, before he catches and chastises himself. He’s employed to be productive and pay bills, of course, and he enjoys his work, he really does. It’s just a bad day.

 

He’s about to head back to his desk when he realises that he’s hearing sniffling. As he pauses and listens, he can hear someone shifting, and what sounds like quiet tapping on a phone--

 

And then, quietly, he absorbs that he can hear the faint sound of a call being made from one of the stalls. It’s a miracle that whoever’s in there hasn’t heard him. He should leave.

 

“H-hey, girl,” says whoever it is, voice cracking. “Oh god. I think I really fucked up.”

 

He should _really_ leave.

 

“You know that new boyfriend?” they say. “He was-- he had a-- _oh god_.” There’s a wrenching sob. “He was already dating someone.” they manage in a watery voice.

 

...He _should_ really leave. His hand is on the door.

 

He waits.

 

“It gets worse. I-- I was just flattered by the attention, you know? Well. You know how I said it’s someone at work?” There’s a short, humorless laugh. “Guess who he was dating. Just guess.

 

“ _The_ Mr. Scientia. You know, the one who-- at the barbecue? With the knives? Yeah.”

 

That part briefly distracts Ignis as he tries to recall what he did at the company barbecue, besides have a glass of box wine and help prepare for the grilling.

 

There’s another sniff, more shifting sounds. “The only reason he doesn’t run my division is I’m not important enough. Like, I know they need new talent, but-- things are tight right now. I’m not even full contract yet. And if they let me go from _Insomnia_ , at _this_ point in my career--

 

“He’s going to kill me. Or ruin my life, at least. I can’t even blame him. God. They’d been together since college, man! No, you don’t understand.

 

“ _He walked in on us having sex_ .” he hisses a little hysterically, and Ignis places him as two people in one: Prompto Argentum, a promising photographer and less promising potential idol, _and_ apparently the young man that Tuil is-- seeing.

 

“I’m not even worth it.” says Prompto. “Why would someone who had _that_ want _me_ ? I’m not-- god. I feel so bad. If I’d known, I _never_ would have-- I don’t know what to do.”

 

There’s another laugh, this one a little less broken. “Thanks. I dunno, he just scares the shit out of me. He hasn’t even said anything. They just-- broke up. I wonder if we’d even still be together if they hadn’t.”

 

The band of tension around the back of Ignis’ head is like a vise.

 

“Yeah, yeah.” says Prompto. “Don’t lie to spare _my_ feelings, right? Hey!” Another laugh. “Hey, listen, I gotta get back to work, but. I really appreciate it.”

 

Prompto groans. “Don’t even say it. Maybe I’ll get lucky and won’t run into him this month. Or ever. For the rest of my life. Yeah. Later.”

 

He’s a moment too slow.

 

The stall door swings open.

 

Prompto _is_ an attractive young man, even when blotchy after crying. Freckled, expressive. He’s energetic and toned. Cute, if that’s what someone’s looking for. His mouth forms a little ‘o’ of surprise, and he jerks backward, but, of course, there’s nowhere for him to go, really.

 

Ignis wants so, so badly to hate him.

 

“Hi, Mr. Scientia.” Prompto squeaks, cringing.

 

Ignis glances to the side for a moment, hands raised, wanting to flinch back himself. Instead, he steps forward, studying the young man’s face. It’s the first time he’s really bothered to look at him, besides headshots and a very, very unwanted sight of far too much of him.

 

He wonders if Prompto really didn’t know that Tuil wasn’t single, or if he was just lying to his friend to make himself sound better.

 

“I’m sorry,” says Ignis, but he can’t help if it comes out a little dry. “I overheard more than I should have. If I may?”

 

“Sir?” asks Prompto.

 

Ignis tries to be careful in choosing his words. “My personal feelings on you will have no bearing on your employment, for whatever it’s worth. I don’t even have the final say in that decision.”

 

“Oh.” says Prompto. He swallows and rocks from foot to foot, eyes flicking away momentarily here and there like he’s looking for an exit. “I-- thanks? I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I just--”

 

He looks more miserable than Tuil did. “I’m so sorry.” he repeats. “You probably had, like, your whole life planned out, right? You seem like a guy who plans everything. N-not that it’s any of my business! I just didn’t mean to--”

 

He falters, shaking a bit. Gods.

 

Ignis _wants_ to hate him. He doesn’t seem terribly clever. Besides for a few promising shots in his portfolio, nothing stands out about his work yet. And he’s breaking down, emotional, at work, with Ignis comforting him, when somehow Ignis hasn’t even managed to make the tears come out yet.

 

“For what it’s worth,” Ignis adds hastily, “I _don’t_ have any personal feelings on you. I don’t know you. I-- knew Tuil, yes, but I suppose neither of us knew each other as well as we thought we did, in the end.”

 

“Oh.” repeats Prompto. “...Really?”

 

He’s not very easy to hate.

 

“Really.” replies Ignis, steady and firm. He gives Prompto a brisk pat on the shoulder. “I’m fine.” he lies.

 

That makes Prompto burst into tears again, so of course that’s when the door swings open to let one of the receptionists in.

 

“Uhh,” the man says.

 

Ignis chooses that moment to cut his losses and just leave, however the scene looks be damned. He tried.

 

 

* * *

 

It occurs to him, once he escapes a little ways down the hall, that he’s definitely been gone long enough that someone will notice. He may as well take his lunch break and work through it from wherever he eats. But where should he go? The café is out of the question. And he doesn’t want to deal with the cafeteria. The mere idea of the sounds, the smells, and the likely-unsympathetic company is turning his stomach.

 

He could use some caffeine, and he does need to eat something, though, so that he can attempt taking some aspirin or the like.

 

After a moment raking his mind, he thinks of another spot that’s a bit out of the way. There’s a break room with a few vending machines that’s often empty. It’ll be a brisk walk to the less-used elevator from where he is, but for even the potential of some loneliness to himself to try and clear his head, he’ll take it.

 

Of course, with his luck, he’ll have another uncomfortable encounter with someone else who has the same idea.

 

The idea of encountering someone in the break room preoccupies him. He hardly thinks to worry about what company he might be stranded with in the _elevator_ until he realizes, with a brief unintended glance in his peripheral vision, that the dark-haired young man to his side has an arm raised to cover his face as he cries quietly.

 

It seems to be a day for Ignis to be blindsided by crying young men.

 

He stares forward, jaw tensing more and more, until they reach his floor. The reason the elevator is used less often is because it’s a bit slow. His number’s already been pressed, too.

 

The toneless, generically peppy elevator music makes it worse. Finally, though, the chime rings out their floor.

 

“There’s a restroom down the hall to the left.” he says tersely. “Get yourself cleaned up.”

 

Then, he makes out of there at a power-walk toward the conveniently inconvenient break room and its cheap, hard chairs. There’s a small mercy when he gets there; it’s empty. There’s a small curse; the vending machine is out of Ebony, and he has to get a can of Milk Tea because it’s the only thing in stock in the working drink machine. Perhaps whoever is responsible for it has forgotten.

 

He has a candy bar for lunch. The sugar doesn’t help his headache like he’d hoped, and the damned tea is just too comparatively mellow and dry to what he usually prefers. He does luck out, however, with a little packet with two pills of an over-the-counter NSAID tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket; he’d feared he’d left it in his outer jacket that’s in the coatroom, or even worse, at home.

 

It’s still better for him and for the sake of his workday that he’s fed and caffeinated now-- for a given value of fed and caffeinated. Especially when his phone buzzes to notify him that his schedule’s been altered without forewarning, and he’ll be sitting in on the board meeting later that afternoon.

 

Only in hindsight does he think that he may have sounded shorter than he meant to, and he sighs. The day seems painfully set on teaching him that his tongue can be sharper than he thought.

 

 

* * *

 

He’s keenly remembering the conversation with Prompto as Titus Drautos announces, to a tableful of murmuring, another round of budget cuts that’ll mean layoffs for certain-- and even Regis Lucis Caelum himself is looking steely at that one, which tells Ignis that a storm’s soon to be brewing. There’s a merger coming, yes, but the numbers are too snug by far.

 

Sitting there is a bit of a rare honor and surprise for Ignis, who’s usually just passed the highlights and the decisions to carry out afterward. He makes a habit of passively absorbing rumor without ruminating on it; it isn’t his job to worry over things like gossip about whether or not they’ll be combining with the Nox Fleuret fashion house.

 

There’s a tiny dog in the CEO’s lap, but everyone’s got far more important things on their mind than why a small animal is present. The enormous table with its high-backed chairs is imposing enough; those seated at it wield the kind of influence and power that Ignis would gladly avoid, were they not associated with work that he’s quite dedicated to.

 

“I’m sure,” Drautos tells Ignis personally afterward, as the CFO responsible for actually carrying things out, “that you’ll see a little extra work on your plate, but I hear recently you’ve been freed from all...personal indiscretions...anyway.” He gives a thin smile. “Silver linings, right?”

 

Ignis’ headache chooses that moment to give a particularly blinding stab of pain, and he isn’t sure he’s succeeding at keeping his expression neutral.

 

“I think,” Ignis hears from behind them, “that’s more than enough, Titus. I’m going to be having a long conversation with Accounting, and I think it would do you well in the meantime to think of how your _training_ for your _job_ might dictate how you speak to a colleague about personal matters, hm?”

 

There’s a rattle of a cane, and Ignis turns to see Mr. Lucis Caelum himself frowning at them. He has more gray shot through his hair than the last time they’d spoken. Ignis feels his spine go that bit straighter and stiffer that it always has the handful of times he’s interacted with the man.

 

“Ignis, isn’t it?” he asks. He’s still holding the dog, which seems to notice the tension in the room, floppy ears quivering.

 

“Yes sir.” says Ignis.

 

The man who runs the company nods and gestures with his cane. “Walk with me.”

 

Like always, something about the man’s eyes is startling and striking to him. It could be the unexpected warmth, the quiet light of understanding. He can be quiet; in business, others have found it a critical error to mistake him for for passive or unobservant.

 

A board member’s just been chastised for his sake, but Ignis is still reasonably anxious about the conversation.

 

“I’m sure you’re aware,” says Mr. Lucis Caelum, “that Titus Drautos has been with us for some time.”

 

“Yes sir,” says Ignis, neutrally.

 

“Tell me honestly,” he says, looking Ignis in the eye. “Did those numbers look right to you?”

 

“Operating costs have seemed a bit...uneven for a while.” says Ignis. “There’s no one large source to the discrepancies so far, but…it’s been getting worse.”

 

“Please, young man,” Mr. Lucis Caelum tells him, “be straightforward with me. How bad is it?”

 

“Those numbers today were shocking. Our overhead and profits should _not_ look like that.” Ignis replies. “I think--,” and he hesitates, because he isn’t sure how much he wants to say. His job might not fare well in the face of poorly-chosen speculation.

 

“I think somebody was trying to ease us into it with a slow bleed.” he says. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence at all.”

 

Mr. Lucis Caelum stops him in the hallway with a hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye. “I believe that somebody on the board’s been skimming, and I need to make sure we have a clean house before the merger. Young man, we’ve got a heavy audit in order, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have heading it than you.”

 

“Sir?” says Ignis, because he’s certain he’s heard wrong.

 

“I understand the weight of the responsibilities on you right now.” he says. “You’ll have an extent of discretion to decide who’ll assist you with both if you accept, of course, but who you choose could determine the future of the company.”

 

Ignis tries to swallow, only to find his mouth’s gone dry.

 

It’s an incredible opportunity. It’s also an incredibly weighty responsibility; both of them are, really, and he knows he’s young to be CFO, hardly expected in the first place that there might be enough coffee in the city to cover wrangling them a working operational budget _and_ keep losses minimal.

 

“I’ll start preparations immediately.” he says.

 

“Are you sure?” the man asks. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot to make a decision about this. The work you do isn’t easily dispensable, regardless.”

 

“It needs done, doesn’t it?” says Ignis. “This is a matter of the highest priority. Besides which,” he thinks to add, “I’ll have to redo everything regardless if the numbers I’m working with aren’t accurate.”

 

“I appreciate your sense of urgency.” says Mr. Lucis Caelum.

 

He pauses.

 

“This is an extraordinary circumstance, of course.” he says. “I’m...afraid that I may have given some the idea in the past that I expect them to live for the company. I won’t pry, but I do hope that whether it’s a friend, a hobby, or even,” the man gestures gently with the tolerant little dog, “something like a pet, that you’ve got an outlet to reach out to. It seems you’ve been dealing with some painful times.”

 

“I-- thank you for your concern.” Ignis replies, feeling off-kilter, as he has the whole conversation. It’s not something he’d expect from one of his bosses, and he tries not to be embarrassed about how touched he feels at the basic expression of human concern.

 

It does remind him, though, of the kind of man he once wished he could make himself into-- his name aside, he’s starting to wonder if something’s missing in him where that warmth would come from.

 

Heaven help him if he ever grew into a man like Titus Drautos. Even if half his department seemed to like him and only him.

 

_To be continued_

 


	2. darkness-making days

Ignis doesn’t get out of the office until late, making him regret his mistaken choice in jackets all the more. The snow is coming down heavily; there’s a bracing chill in every gust that cuts straight through him, and the salt and traffic on the sidewalk can’t quite keep up with the dirty slush accumulating. His shoes and trouser cuffs are going to need special tending when he gets home, and he can’t tell if his socks are soaked or if his feet are merely that cold.

 

He’s lucky public transport is still running, and hopes that luck holds the next day, as he can’t imagine trying to drive the commute in the conditions.

 

On the one hand, the portions aboveground and out of transport are miserable. The wind keeps stealing his breath. On the other, so much as a fender-bender could stall him for hours, and put his car in the shop, which would leave him taking public transport until it was repaired anyway at minimum.

 

Sometimes he wonders what he keeps the damned thing for, although he used to love to drive-- and he reminds himself that it’s simply a bad winter that doesn’t seem to know when to quit, and that he shouldn’t make any decisions he might regret while under this much stress.

 

The final block-and-a-half to his building from the only bus stop involved are done with quite impaired vision, his too-thin scarf pulled up over his mouth and his glasses fogged entirely. To make things worse, the streetlights right outside his building need work; the sodium-yellow lights are flickering, casting eerie shadows that look bruise-purple against the snow.

 

At first, when he nearly trips, shins smacking into some blurry-shaped obstacle, he thinks with irritation that somebody’s left their trash out on the concrete stoop under the overhang by the door, partly obscured by the rapid snowfall.

 

There’s the texture of plastic under his gloves when he touches it, and it rattled a bit when he collided with it. When he goes to try and lift it, though, it’s unexpectedly heavy-- not a misplaced trash bag after all-- and rolls instead.

 

The rattle resolves into a hollow, rattling cough, and Ignis’ heart nearly stops.

 

It takes him a moment to get his glasses as clean as his scarf can possibly make them, to squint at the shapes in the haunting lighting, but he manages to make out that the plastic texture is actually an ugly puffy jacket.

 

He’s figured out by now that he’s looking at a person, but he still feels like he’s going to come right out of his skin when he sees a face.

 

Despite the cough, they don’t seem to be conscious, though they _are_ shivering. That’s supposed to be a good sign, right? How long have they been asleep or otherwise unconscious in this inhumane weather? At least, he thinks faintly, he didn’t collide with them with any real force.

 

“Hello?” he tries to ask, prodding gently. Heavens. Breathing in the bitterly cold air is making him want to cough, too. “Can you wake up?”

 

When there’s no response, he hurries to wrangle an arm over his shoulder and make his way into the lobby. Thankfully, he’s keycarded in one-handed before.

 

Whoever he’s propping up finally stirs a little in the warmer air, moaning.

 

“Do you have someone I can call?” tries Ignis. Surely the air in the lobby is lukewarm at best, but even he’s feeling a rush of pins and needles in his cheeks from the difference in temperature.

 

There’s benches by the elevator, and Ignis takes a moment to catch his breath there. With his hands free and his gloves off, he can retrieve his glasses case and cleaning cloth.

 

Clean glasses mean he can get a look at the half-frozen person’s face with total clarity.

 

The stranger has a ballcap pulled down over inky black hair. Dark eyelashes rest on still cheeks; something about him looks familiar, but Ignis is certain they’ve never met. One of his cheeks is bruised.

 

He has deep, deep shadows under his eyes, and he’s too thin in that unevenly-bloated way, like he’s been living off junk food but not _enough_ of it.

 

His jacket is also not quite heavy enough for the weather. The shivering is becoming less violent, though, even if he isn’t waking up. His boots are good-quality and sensible for the temperatures, and his gloves reveal somewhat blistered and sore-looking fingers with color in them that twitch. It concerns Ignis how one hand is in worse condition the other, starting to look puffy and infected around a cut in the palm, and uneven bruises circle both wrists and extend onto the other hand on one side.

 

Ignis is fairly certain by now that he’s probably facing up with a young man, and one who may no longer be in any urgent medical crisis, although he might be in a bad situation.

 

In absence of acute hypothermia or signs of frostbite, or any major injury-- Ignis can see the edges of additional recent bruising and abrasions, not all from the same time, peeking around his clothes, but none of it’s severe-- Ignis has a series of judgement calls to make.

 

He gives a cursory, brisk pat-over of the young man’s pockets, but turns up no phone or wallet that might identify who he’s found. As it is, he’s still unsure whether or not to go ahead and try arranging emergency medical attention for him, just in case.

 

Gradually, the blanched face is getting a bit more color. For some reason, without thinking, Ignis picks the other cold hands up in his own to blow on and try to rub more warmth into, hoping he’ll get a response of some sort.

 

He does watch the shivering subside a bit more. Then, to his faint bewilderment, he places the noises that are starting to come from the young man as quiet snores.

 

A louder snort catches him off-guard, and nearly makes him laugh from sheer lack of warning.

 

Laying the back of his hand over the young man’s forehead reveals that it’s clammy, running neither hot nor cold. “You might not be as bad off as all that, despite everything.” Ignis murmurs, a bit of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Thank goodness. Gave me a fright.”

 

He should really try a bit harder to wake the young man, at least, to be sure that he’s alright. However, Ignis finds himself loathe to. Just the extra heat from being in the chilly lobby is starting to ease the pinched look from him; he looks like he could use a good night’s rest.

 

Ignis’ mind does raise the concerns of whether or not he’ll awake to find himself robbed blind, or how he’ll figure out where to send the young man in the morning. It might also be interpreted as threatening to wake up in a stranger’s home, although dying of exposure isn’t exactly a friendly prospect either.

 

Really, he can wait like this for the hour or more it’ll take one of the overworked ambulances to arrive in the weather.

 

...

 

He’d feared he might watch another human being die that night, and he-- finds that he simply doesn’t want the young man out of his sight until there’s quite a few more blankets on him.

 

So, in a moment of unforeseen madness, he finds himself navigating the elevator while dragging another person, and trying to get his apartment open without dropping anything or anyone. His couch is reasonably comfortable-- and he does, he remembers, have extra blankets in the narrowest closet, which he hardly uses. It’s not a question of whether it’s wise so much as if he’ll be able to live with himself if he doesn’t.

 

It turned out he hadn’t the clarity he thought, even, once he’s gotten the stranger settled on the couch and gotten a chance to properly clean his glasses. At closer glance, as he’s wrestling it off, it’s a puffy vest over an even lighter jacket than previously thought. Heavens.

 

The young man doesn’t even wake as Ignis unlaces his boots and carefully eases them off to leave by the door. His feet are the last and the most awkward of the extremities needing checked in case of frostbite, and they prove not to be in need of urgent medical attention, either, but they’re raw and blistered with sluggish bleeding.

 

Before he knows it, Ignis is pulling out his fairly thorough first aid kit. He’ll remember the night later in vignettes, bits and flashes; by the time he’s done, he’ll have pushed and prodded at the edges of the stranger’s clothes to check the extent of injury and patch things over where he can.

 

He tries not to be invasive. Most of it looks more painful than anything, none like injuries from a major fight or a beating, but it still raises question in him where they could possibly be from.

 

The fact that the most protest it raises is mumbled complaint and he _still_ fails to wake the young man concerns him. None of the bruising is heavy, or anywhere that might indicate internal bleeding. But he’s got question as to the wisdom of not seeking immediate medical care. There’s still the lingering worry that some injury or ailment that Ignis could miss might be killing him.

 

When he drapes a blanket over the stranger before approaching the window to peer out, though, he finds that the snow has picked up heavily. It’ll be hours before the plows come through. What’s piled on the road looks deep.

 

There’s a grumble from the couch.

 

In his sleep, the young man rolls away from the overhead light to face the back of the couch, curling into the cushions, pulling the blanket tighter around him. He makes a sound of satisfaction, and his light snores even out. There’s topical anaesthetic in the antibiotics and creams that the first aid kit holds, so he’s likely far more comfortable with that extent of attention administered, and the coughing’s tapered away in the warm.

 

He looks relaxed. Still perhaps a bit chilly, though.

 

Ignis chooses to drape another blanket around him and head to bed. He’s worrying too much. The roads will be cleared in the morning, and he’ll be expected at work; he can pay the cab fare or give the young man directions to somewhere more long-term than Ignis’ couch once it’s less late and he’s less exhausted.

 

As he’s pulled down into the grip of sleep in his own bed after eating and changing in a hurry, he realizes faintly that his head doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Noct is warm, and pretty damn comfortable, even if his back is protesting and parts of him throb and sting. He doesn’t want to get up. But his bladder’s filing an uncomfortable sensory protest, and the growing nagging pressure won’t let him drift back to sleep. For some indeterminate period of time, he contends with it, trying to burrow into his blankets.

 

He wakes slowly and reluctantly, head feeling like it’s been stuffed with static and fog. Once he blinks his groggy eyes open, he lays there for a long moment, just staring up at the ceiling as his brain starts to fumble to awareness.

 

They lull shut a little bit at a time.

 

Then, they shoot back open as he nearly chokes on nothing, realizing he has no clue where he is.

 

His movements pull and feel weirdly constricted in a few places as he sits up, sensations muffled and padded. It doesn’t take him long to realize that there’s bandages here and there, and the scrapes he can see are farther faded than the last time he’d looked, the redness easing away.

 

It looks like his favorite vest and his jacket have been hung over the back of the couch, and he can see his boots by a door with a bolt that’s presumably the front door of wherever he is. His duffel bag is nowhere to be seen. But there’s nothing overtly threatening yet; hopefully things will stay that way.

 

He’s in some kind of moderately high-end apartment or condo, with an open main floor plan and high ceilings. It throws him for a moment, besides having never seen the place, because last he’d remembered, he’d been headed toward a different area of tow--

 

Whatever he was remembering blanks out on him. It’ll come back, he knows; he’s just tired. It’s still frustrating.

 

The place is quiet. There’s a note on the table, next to a glass of water and what looks like a plate of food under a dome, but Noct decides to look for the bathroom first.

 

Judging by the view he passes by the window, and a few other visual cues, he’s in a pretty damn nice apartment. It’s not undecorated, having a modern, mature style to it, but it’s sparse and it’s so _clean_ that it’s hard to imagine anyone does any living there.

 

There’s a few creature comforts here and there, though: books, throw pillows, the blankets he found on himself. A couple of decorative knick-knacks that add splashes of color. No photos so far, though.

 

One of the doors is under what appears to be a loft, and it reveals a bathroom, much to his relief. He wishes he had the energy for more snooping. As it is, if he knew where the hell he was and what had happened to his duffel bag, he wouldn’t mind showering and crashing for a few more hours, but he should probably get the hell out of here.

 

He’s also just not sure where to go, _especially_ since he has no clue what he’s done with his phone.

 

Once he’s washed up, noting the single toothbrush by the sink, he decides to at least check out the note. And the plate. Hopefully whoever left it won’t be insulted or anything if he’s just not about whatever is on it.

 

A cautious sniff tells him that the water doesn’t smell like anything weird is up with it, although he isn’t really sure what he’d be able to tell by smell, anyway. Sipping it reveals that he’s thirstier than he expected, and he ends up refilling it at the sink before he even gets the cover off the plate.

 

It’s gone lukewarm, but-- he prods at an egg that’s sitting on toast, with lettuce in-between that seems to have barely fared poorly for the time passing. Instead he turns his attention to what look like hashbrowns. History’s taught him that they tend to go kind of sad and gummy when they cool, but these still seem pretty crisp.

 

He nibbles at one with an appetite that surprises him as he reads the note.

 

_Whoever you are,_

 

_You didn’t request to be brought indoors, but I suspected you’d be much more comfortable continuing that nap of yours in from the cold. I must confess that at first I’d taken you for dead. You certainly sleep like it. Please feel free to seek emergency medical care in my absence, should you believe you need it._

 

Noct startles at that for a moment, and shifts uncomfortably as he considers the bandages again. He hadn’t exactly planned on falling asleep outside; the night before is kind of blurry with exhaustion and--

 

His stomach turns. The hashbrowns are pretty nice, and he’s starting to get into munching on them. He’d really rather not think about it and ruin his appetite.

 

Instead, he refocuses on the note.

 

_There’s juice and leftovers in the fridge. Directions to the nearest library branch are attached. It has wireless internet, as well as phones and computers available for use free of charge, if you require such to contact somebody you can stay with. I’m afraid I have no landline._

 

_My work is likely to keep me quite late. I suspect you’ve likely got somewhere else you’d prefer to be by then._

 

Unlikely, thinks Noct with a sinking feeling. Maybe Prompto’s place, but he hasn’t talked to Prompto since his phone died and he forgot where he put it.

 

Besides which, he knows Prompto’s been trying to come back when his landlord isn’t there and leave before the guy gets back, because his payday’s slated to be off from rent due-day by a week _again_ for some stupid reason, and somebody in the building fucked up the outside lock.

 

_I won’t think anything of it if you see need to borrow a towel to wash up (see above washer in bathroom), or some more weather-appropriate outerwear from the hall closet. I’m afraid I’m not prepared or equipped to entertain guests at the moment, so aside from that, I can’t offer much else._

 

_If you plan to be gone by the time I’m back, please do your best to leave things mostly as they are._

 

_Regards,_

_Ignis Scientia_

 

After eating, he kicks back to think. He’s pleasantly surprised to find some energy stirring in him as the food settles in, and he can sort of place the view from the window as a spot he’d stopped to try and catch his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, and--

 

He hadn’t opened them, apparently.

 

A shiver overtakes him from head to toe, because he’s not stupid; he knows the timing of this Ignis finding him had to border on a miracle, since he’s got all his fingers and toes and he’s still breathing.

 

Or maybe he _is_ stupid. After all, he could have died. A less charitable stranger could have found him. Someone could have panicked and called an ambulance, or found his things and called his dad. It-- might not have been the worst of all scenarios, to wake up in the hospital or something to his dad over him, but god, it would be nice to last at least a year of living on his own without giving his dad a stroke.

 

He vaguely remembers laying his head on his bag.

 

Groaning, he pulls himself together at least to bundle back up again to retrieve it, even if he’s still feeling pretty wiped out. It takes him way too long to get his boots back on, and he ends up going back in to grab the note and a pen and write the apartment number down; he doesn’t trust himself to remember it correctly on his way back, and hopes this Scientia doesn’t return home unexpectedly early meanwhile.

 

He’s grateful he notices that the outside door locks automatically before he’s out, and thinks to prop it open with a stopper that someone’s clearly left for the purpose. It’s still bitterly cold out. The sky’s blindingly blue, and the slush that isn’t dirty or melted or plowed away sparkles.

 

His bag is, in fact, lodged in the partly-melted-and-refrozen snowbank by the door, a black corner barely peeking out. He takes a few moments of kicking with his boots to dislodge chunks of ice and snow to get it loose, but if he remembers right, anything that wouldn’t survive the experience should still be back in his work locker, waiting for him to get back to work.

 

Half of him dreads it, the alarms for shifts, the travel in the cold, while the other half feels the urgency of covering groceries, a steady and secure place to stay. His meds, if he keeps taking them. Living isn’t free.

 

If he doesn’t figure out what the hell he did with his phone, his boss might not be able to get ahold of him, and there won’t be any alarms. Dammit. Dammit.

 

The unpleasant task over, he hurries back inside, pulling the stopper in and making sure the door shuts securely behind him. Writing the apartment number down was a good idea; he rides the elevator feeling uncomfortable about the potential of being spotted, because he’s never actually met the person he’s staying with, and he hasn’t even seen any pictures in their place yet to give him an idea of what they might look like. He’d rather not deal with any awkward questions he won’t know how to answer from neighbors, especially in a building that’s, well, really nice.

 

He doesn’t want to think about what this Scientia must pay for his lease. It’s-- not something Noct had to be concerned with before; now the cost of housing looms heavy on his mind.

 

It also occurs to him as he treks across the lobby that even with an elevator, someone would have to be pretty surprisingly strong to drag Noct inside while he was passed out.

 

Somehow, even though he tried to be careful with the mat in the entryway and expected the rest to thaw in the elevator, he makes more of a mess on his way back in and leaving his boots by the door than someone else did maybe _carrying_ him. Then again, maybe they cleaned up after.

 

He does better in cleaning up after himself than he would if it were his own place, but he also suspects that he’s judging by a different standard, and he might not actually be able to _tell_ if he’s doing well enough.

 

There’s a long groan when his rummage through his duffel finally, finally turns his phone up when it hadn’t on some miserable occasions prior. Still, though: he has it now. His charger is still missing, but the one he spots on the kitchen counter turns out to be the correct type.

 

After a beat, the screen flashes a little battery animation that starts to cycle, and he feels a little accomplished for a moment. He watches it repeat until the triumphant feeling fades; it’s replaced by remembering how long it takes the phone to get charged enough to turn on once it’s died. His fingers drum on the counter as he starts to sag, continuing to watch.

 

He doesn’t have a lot to do.

 

...A little snooping to pass the time wouldn’t hurt anyone, right? Might as well be extra-sure he hasn’t crashed with a serial killer by accident.

 

There’s a TV and what look like reasonably current disc players, and some nice speakers, but no cable box or consoles in sight.

 

Popping the cabinet open reveals an array of movies and CDs, organized neatly. He browses them out of curiosity, and it’s a mix of genres, languages, and budgets. There’s a few things he recognizes from theaters, and he knows he liked a couple of the animated films there, but he barely recognizes most of the music.

 

Nothing in the note had implied that anyone else lives in the place, and it’s an almost thrilling alien feeling as he pokes around. He’s careful not to move anything. The fridge shows a few sparse things that imply whoever lives in the place knows how to cook, including the mentioned leftovers. The freezer and the recycling bin show that they’ve been eating a lot of frozen meals and ice cream, but it’s nice brands in smaller portions, and most of the former look like they’d have more flavors and textures than he can usually deal with at once.

 

There’s the barest thin layer of dust in a few places, in what’s otherwise an eerily impeccable household. Most of it’s around anything that could be fun or social by some stretch of the imagination.

 

The set of free weights in the corner isn’t dusty, even though it’s tidy, but that doesn’t tell him much.

 

A side table with drawers in the living room turns up the first particularly interesting thing-- the near-empty top drawer has a photo facedown. When he goes to try and pick it up by the back, it turns out to be loosened from the frame, and he sees the writing before he sees the photo itself.

 

It’s a date followed by multiple rows of names. One of them is ‘Ignis’.

 

It turns out to be a group graduation photo from some university. It’s hard to make out much detail on individual faces, but he still scrambles to locate from the back which one would be Ignis Scientia.

 

Noct squints at the photo.

 

...How old was this guy (?) when he graduated? He tries to remember how old he was that year. Wasn’t Noct still in high school, himself? The person looking up at him from the photo seems young, mouth quirked softly, eyes clear behind his glasses. He’s got kind of darker sandy hair, spiked up, and he’s handsome in a gentle way. His features are defined in clean lines, and a slight pearly overbite peeking that makes him look a little softer and more hesitant than he might otherwise.

 

After some more creeping around mostly just reveals that the person has a ridiculous amount of storage, with at least one pair of thin-framed glasses in a case in each room, what’s left is the bedroom. The glasses are all similar-styled to the photo.

 

He almost holds up against his curiosity. He’s kind of been rude and invasive enough already; he knows he’s crossed lines. The mildly perverse excitement of wandering a stranger’s home to make guesses about them is starting to wear off, replaced by grudging, tentative resolve not to push his luck any farther.

 

It doesn’t last much longer than the discovery that his phone won’t turn on yet.

 

Noct stands awkwardly at the end of the hall for a moment, staring at the last door. He only realizes he’s been holding his breath once he lets it out, a shaky exhale once he’s eased the door open, but hasn’t quite peeked inside.

 

At first glance, it ends up being a pretty boring bedroom, though. It’s also clean enough to border on that kind of staged look.

 

All in, he thinks as he opens the closet door.

 

It’s orderly. Mostly suits and dress shirts, a few softer and more casual things. He can see the edges of photo frames on a high shelf and decides not to risk an actual disaster, but between them and the face-down photo in the drawer, he gets the idea that the lack might be a recent change.

 

The dress shirts do have a few more colorful prints, though, and there’s not a lot of ties. It’s still pretty stern fare, but he catches flashes of textured leather on a suit jacket here, some spiked metal studs there-- it’s a little edgier than what he’d normally expect, if he guessed that he was dealing with a businessman who pretty much lived at the office.

 

And at the bottom, there’s a simple wooden chest with no lock on it, just sitting out.

 

He catches his lower lip between his teeth, tugging. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Crouches.

 

There’s clearly nested compartments, but all he does is take a peek at the top layer before it’s closed.

 

Then, thoughtful, he tips it open one more time to commit the visible contents to memory before latching it and closing the closet door behind it. He’s careful not to scuff the rugs and to close the bedroom door behind him, too, and sinks onto the couch with his face in his hands and his head in a daze because _he can’t believe he just did that_. Going through the man’s underwear drawer might have been better.

 

He feels a reasonable amount of shame mixed with _even more_ curiosity. Great work, Noct, great way to repay someone for doing you a solid. Totally not creepy of him at all. Right.

 

All cleanly laid out, there’d been an artfully curved steel wand, a harness, some probe-looking things in glass and metal and silicone, and a single bullet vibe. That’d been what Noct had recognized. There was a also clean, partly-empty bottle of a nice brand of lube, a coil of soft-looking rope in a deep subtle plum color, and after that a few smaller metal and leather things he _didn’t_ recognize.

 

He moves the charger as soon as his phone’s charged enough to turn on, to curl up in the blankets on the couch and prod at it as he thinks. First, it reveals that the strongest and therefore nearest (but locked) wireless signal on the list is a network named ‘Wi Believe I Can Fi’, which makes him give an extended audible groan.

 

Then his phone buzzes for about two minutes solid as the carrier connection pulls it together and notifications start flooding in, mostly from Prompto, and Noct’s got a distraction for the rest of the afternoon.

 

...As soon as his phone stops buzzing and he can get it to do anything.  


 

* * *

 

 

Ignis has lost most bodily awareness besides for heartburn and the caffeine shakes, comparing tables of numbers by month to a binder full of photocopies of receipts, half of them illegible or from the wrong _year_ , when his nigh-incandescent state of rage at sloppy filing is broken before it can transcend into the zen of madness.

 

It’s hard to tell how long Ms. Elshett’s been waiting for him to notice her standing there; she’s got a kind of tired, comfortable serenity and patience that, like her cardigans, serve to quiet her presence and soften her edges. At work, she could pass for a pastor, or perhaps a Sunday school teacher.

 

He’s seen the motorcycle she takes to work. She started in the Crownsguard Security partner company, and at some twenty years his senior, he knows her qualifications outclass his, that she took a lateral promotion for her health before _he’d_ even been pulling espresso shots on the first floor.

 

“I got your message.” she says. “It seemed like a good idea to discuss this in person.”

 

Ignis inclines his head. “I appreciate you making the time in your schedule for this, Ms. Elshett.”  
  
She waves a hand at him. “Just Monica, please,” she responds. “It sounds like we’re in for quite the undertaking.”

 

“Yes,” Ignis sighs, “with regards to that, I was hoping I could consult on something.” He lowers his voice a bit, mindful of the thin partitioning in his area of the offices.   
  
“I believe I’ve got assistants in mind with the skills and discretion needed, pending your advice. But a bigger matter is that I’d like to have at least one more person with your level of experience involved, who you personally trust.”

 

“Does it matter if they’re not from the core company?” she asks.

 

“Actually,” says Ignis, “that would be preferable.”

 

“Perfect. You’re acquainted with my predecessor.” she says.

 

“Dustin Ackers. Isn’t he functionally the CFO for Crownsguard?” he replies. “...How have their numbers looked, again?”

 

“It’s not the tightest accounting I’ve ever seen. But it’s close.” says Monica. “In some dread advent where Insomnia crumbled for some reason or another, Crownsguard would likely survive. Dustin and I worked closely for some years, but he did not pursue Finance until he was considering the return to Crownsguard.”

 

“He wouldn’t be--” starts Ignis, and then he pauses.

 

The office chatter has suddenly fallen a bit too quiet. Unlike when Monica was lurking, he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickling, like someone’s watching him.

 

 _“Did she say something about Dustin again?”_ someone whispers, not quietly enough, and Ignis’ shoulders relax a little.

 

Monica’s face twitches a little wryly.

 

That’s right. The betting pool on whether or not Dustin Ackers and Monica Elshett are-- to put it delicately-- stealing away to christen every surface of the offices in secret. Heavens. Ignis is fairly certain they’re both gay and that it’s gauche to pry into or bet on another’s love life, but he can’t control another adult’s choice in pastime.

 

“Anyway,” she says, “I’d also recommend you speak to Jared.”

 

“Jared?” repeats Ignis.

 

“Jared Hester. He runs the part of Crownsguard most people don’t see.” she replies. “Building maintenance. But he’s also the Amicitias’ personal accountant. He’s thorough. He’ll need shorter days, though.”

 

“That’s reasonable.” says Ignis.

 

“He’s got to pick his grandson up from school.” she adds, shrugging.

 

Ignis pauses.

 

“I need to remember to ask everyone if they’ve got obligations at home and accommodate for that during this crunch, don’t I.” he says, slow as it sinks in.

 

“If you’d like to keep everyone onboard and keep them from burning out? I’d recommend it.” she replies. “My cats will complain, but they’ll be fine eating dinner a little late for a few weeks. Dogs, kids, even partners might be a different matter. What’s more, my work suffers if I don’t pace myself.”

 

He takes a moment to think on the last few weeks. The long hours blur together. His headache seems to have ebbed for now, but--

 

Even though he’d learned in school that learning done on more caffeine than sleep isn’t much of learning at all, that stress and exhaustion lend themselves to making stupid mistakes and overlooking simple things, he’s fallen into some bad patterns, hasn’t he?

 

“Do they,” he starts, but he’s not quite sure what he wants to ask. _Or even a pet_ , he thinks of Mr. Lucis Caelum saying.

 

“Hm?”

 

Ever-patient, Monica waits.

 

“Do they help remind you to-- let yourself be human?” he asks.

 

Then, he has to glance away, because something that looks suspiciously like sympathy is in her eyes in a way he doesn’t know how to deal with.

 

“That they do.” she says softly.

 

Then, she takes a deep breath, and her back straightens. “Anyway, I also came over to drop off a few things. I can see that my life is about to become a bit more hectic.”

 

“You go above and beyond in what you do at work already.” says Ignis. “It would be-- well within your rights to refuse this without it reflecting poorly on you.”

 

She just smiles.

 

“This place is important to me.” she says. He thinks of her reputation with the younger idols-- strict, but fair, always fighting to keep them off of diets and keep healthy snacks around. She’s had less time for it since becoming COO; she’ll have less yet, but Ignis has some concerns over inconsistencies and strange patterns in the pay numbers, and perhaps to her this is still a way to see that food ends up in their bellies.

 

“Thank you for your time,” she says, and: “My door is open if you need me.”

 

He’s got the sensation he’s forgetting something, perhaps not even related to her, and is distracted as she leaves, but he’s _got_ to get temporary budget guidelines sorted, and finish balancing out the past month of operations, and--

 

He simply has too much work to do. He’ll have to remember it later.

 

_To be continued_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been typing as fast as my gay little hands and brains can churn this story out. still got more written in advance, still editing, still truckin' along. RIP


	3. extra heat demands

Ignis likes to think of himself as an organized, prepared man, with a fair amount of mental acuity. He makes an effort to keep his wits about him as much as possible at all times, to forget neither the bigger picture nor the smaller minutiae. His life is beyond testing this.

 

Going in brutally early to dodge the rush, considering the urgency of the audit, was a given. It was a good thing he’d finally gotten some decent sleep, had time to cook breakfast like he preferred; he’d arrived and nearly headed to get his at-work morning coffee, only to find that he couldn’t make himself pass the cafe.

 

By the time he’s headed home, it’s incredibly late, and he’s shaky from another day of a hasty vending machine lunch. His headache’s started pressing in on him again, although not as bad as before. Another mental note, another changed habit: he’s going to have to start taking a thermos in again, cook and prepare himself some practical and healthy lunches.

 

He doesn’t enjoy cooking for himself, though. He learned passably enough, but it always feels lonely, somehow, that he cooks too much for himself, forgets to branch out from the recipe to try it against his tastes. He hadn’t had many chances to cook for friends in college, though it’d always been welcomed enough that he remembers faintly in retrospect that he’d hoped to do it more often once he graduated.

 

When was the last time he saw any of them? He’s been--

 

He’s been living for work, and he doesn’t even know when it started.

 

Surely this is just a hectic place in his life, he thinks, navigating on exhausted and wrung-out autopilot. Early in the breakup, he’d considered the merits of, say, never dating again-- but he suspected it was motivated by shock and pity.

 

Surely he’ll move on, at some point, to start trying new hobbies. Make new friends. Find a boyfriend with better communication, better compatibility; likely, Ignis thinks with a bit of a sour taste in his mouth, limiting himself to men who are a bit older than him and farther along in their lives from the headstart, to at least avoid whatever had been happening with Tuil’s comparative insecurity.

 

To keep it out of mind, at work, he’d pushed himself making calls to assemble a good team to handle both the audit and the operating budget, staring at numbers until his vision had swam.

 

He had to do a lot of hasty math and paperwork-requisitioning, because more than one board member had been directly involved in the company in some way and helped headhunt employees, but the list was nearly finalized. Ignis can only hope that they’ll make swift and discreet progress together to sort everything out.

 

The cold, lonely, dark way home offers nothing to hinge his focus on for work, though. And so the things he’d fought not to think about weigh in his head the whole way.

 

A feeling prickles at him as he approaches his building like he’s forgetting something. His first priority is getting some food in his system, and then he can sit down with his notebook and his briefcase and try to pick back up on his train of thought.

 

With the amount on his mind, perhaps he can forgive himself for making it all the way through his own front door before remembering the night before. His nose is running and stinging, his cheeks feel outright burned from the wind, and he’s starting to wonder if it would be better to try to work from home in the evenings and head home before the sun goes down, or just see how long he can get away with sleeping at work.

 

He nearly drops his keys.

 

There’s an almost comedic moment of Ignis and the young man freezing at the same time, goggling at each other awkwardly. A quiet murmur and shifting light are cast by the TV, but he’s sprawled out sideways on the couch, half-in the blankets, phone in paused hands.

 

The kitchen lights are on, warm, a bit dimmed, contrasting with the deep shadows and bluish light of the living room.

 

“Uh, hey,” he says. His voice is a bit hoarse, and somehow deeper than Ignis expected.

 

“Hello,” says Ignis faintly, all trains of thought having derailed. “It’s good to see you’re awake.” he adds, trying to pull himself together and adapt to the considerable change to his expectations and plans for the night. “Have you eaten?”

 

“Uh,” says the young man.

 

His stomach growls.

 

So he’ll need fed, and roomed at least one more night, and might need some assistance sorting things out for somewhere else to go, thinks Ignis with some distraction.

 

He’s glad that not _all_ the paperwork he’d been hoping to handle at the table is particularly sensitive, but he wouldn’t have brought some of it home if he remembered he’d had a guest-of-sorts.

 

Ignis sighs.

 

“How do you feel about oyakodon?” he asks.

 

“Sounds-- sounds great.” the young man replies, sounding a little bewildered.

 

Once his things are sorted at the door, he observes the young man out of the corner of his eye as he retreats to the kitchen to give them both space to adjust to the surprise. He hadn’t been planning on cooking dinner, but he might as well, even if he’d been somewhat looking forward to eating something terrible and microwaved while off of his feet.

 

There’s a bit of tremor in his hand as he pulls out the pan, and he makes himself take a deep breath. Perhaps he needs to work a bit of the nervous energy from the shock out of his system, as well.

 

He sets out the ingredients, watching the young man’s glance flick between Ignis and the phone as he shifts on the couch to sit up. Belatedly, he realizes that they haven’t introduced themselves.

 

His focus is set on the preparation of the food for a bit, though. He’s lucky he had chicken thawed in need of using. The dish is a bit simpler and more bachelor-esque than he’d normally be oriented toward, but as something fairly hearty, inoffensive, and palatable to a lot of men his age, it’s as good a guess as any for something to feed them both in a hurry.

 

Shame he doesn’t have green onion to top it with. He’s still got good sweet onions tucked away that will suit the broth well, though.

 

“My name is Ignis.” he says, opting to focus on stirring the ingredients for the broth together rather than look up. “And you are?”

 

“...Noct.” says the young man. “Thanks for, uh,” Ignis listens to him shift, moves on to the cutting board to leave the onion in thin, even strips, “saving my life, I guess. I...didn’t mean to pass out like that out there.”

 

“I’d hope not.” says Ignis. He sets the onion aside and starts in on the chicken.

 

No more explanation is forthcoming as he works. Once the onions are simmering, everything else set aside for the moment, he spares a look toward Noct.

 

Noct’s eyes are on his phone, but his hands are still. He’s watching Ignis.

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” asks Noct. His body language is hesitant and closed-off, over where he’s curled on the couch, and there’s some wariness in his voice.

 

“How much do you know about cooking?” Ignis replies.

 

Noct takes a moment to consider it. “...I can make Cup Noodle.” he says, looking away.

 

“If your hand will allow,” says Ignis, “you can wash the dishes after. Or simply rinse them and load the dishwasher,” he amends, although he usually washes up at the sink, because immersing that bandaged hand just isn’t a good idea.

 

“Got it.” says Noct.

 

He uncurls a bit, but something is still stiff about his shoulders and the line of his jaw.

 

“Thanks for feeding me, too.” he adds, a little rushed. “And patching me up. I’m...sorry about all the trouble.”

 

Ignis gives a non-committal hum in response. "I’m still not sure what else there was to do, besides calling an ambulance instead. I’d hardly expected to trip over you on my way in the door.”

 

A snort startles out of Noct, and one corner of his mouth quirks up. “I hope you didn’t actually trip.” he says.

 

“Better me than someone who might have broken something, I suppose.” says Ignis, starting to feel strangely-- _settled_ as he cooks. There’s a stranger in his home, new and different and jangling off his nerves. He has ten thousand and one things to think about before bed. This is fine. He’s fine.

 

He’s not sure how many questions he does or doesn’t want to ask.

 

“I, uh, found my stuff.” says Noct. He gestures with his phone. “Just...waiting to hear back on somewhere to crash.”

 

“It would be a waste of effort to just put you back out into the cold,” Ignis hears himself say, “so let me know. You can just leave a note if you head out tomorrow.”

 

“Thanks. I...definitely have a work shift tomorrow anyway.” Noct replies, shifting again. “I mean. I guess we could trade numbers?”

 

“Right.” says Ignis. He takes a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose, not having thought of it himself, but it’s been a bit of a day.

 

It’s a matter of mere moments to send a text that gets an immediate response, and he spends a moment distracted by realizing that it’s the first new contact he’s added from anywhere other than work in a long while.

 

Noct’s table manners turn out to be well enough, at least.

 

He eats slowly, taking small, wary bites at first that get bigger and more frequent the longer he eats. They sit in silence. The oyakodon seems to appeal, and Ignis wonders for a moment whether not it’ll be a concern another night in a row-- but if it is, he’ll order takeout, and surely it’ll be the last one.

 

It takes Noct longer to finish eating, and once he’s done, he takes the initiative for the cleanup. Does it come naturally to him? The couch is untidy, but Ignis is surprised to find that he doesn’t really mind it.

 

He moves slowly, stiffly, and he’s hurt, but something about it reminds Ignis of people who are used to moving that way.

 

“I’ll just, uh--” says Noct from where he hovers, awkward, in the kitchen, once he’s figured out loading the otherwise-empty dishwasher.

 

“Don’t mind me.” replies Ignis. “I’ll appreciate if you keep the television down, though. There’s a few more things I need to take care of for work before bed.”

 

“Got it.” says Noct, practically fleeing back to the living room.

 

Once the things are spread out in front of him, he finds that it’s not hard to focus on skimming and comparing the numbers, typing out calculations, taking notes as he goes. He’s realizing with a sinking suspicion that he might need to request the earlier records, and fast; every department is known to do some fudging here and there for the budget, but it bothers him that he didn’t notice sooner how the closer he looks at both the profits and the expenses, the less either look right.

 

And hasn’t the press been catching wind of and speculating on major changes with an alarming speed? Haven’t a lot of divisions looked sparsely-populated, a lot of the advertising looking cheap for its ever-inflating cost? He’s going to have to look at the divisions’ contracts himself, as well.

 

He has his work cut out for him. Should he negotiate a contract with a discreet third party for an unbiased fresh take on the numbers-- perhaps even consulting with someone who’s split off from the company on who to hire?

 

When he considers what he’s done with the operating budgets in the past, he realizes with a start that he’s been an unwitting part of the problem.

 

He’s always worked hard to make what he’s given work without asking many questions. While he doesn’t cut a lot of slack for excesses, there’s a lot that he technically dictates to others with seniority and authority over him, and they have the power to override what he decides.

 

Whether it’s malice or incompetence, the same likely applies to whoever is responsible for this. What records look utterly correct look too clean, which bothers him. They may simply not be able to take the money back, either, when it’s been drawn over such a period of time-- he’ll have to be very careful who he accuses of what, and watch his step.

 

He tries not to let a sense of dread come over him about it. It is what it is. He’s been given a task.

 

The next time he looks up, it’s because he’s absently considering a coffee or tea, and realizing that his hands are cold. Some noise in the background filters back into his awareness, and he turns his head, because--

 

Oh.

 

Noct is giving faint, even snores from the couch, the TV still murmuring.

 

The odd coziness of it has somehow lulled him, and he’s lost track of time. Badly.

 

Noct barely stirs, as Ignis pulls himself together to pack the papers back into his briefcase and turn the TV off.

 

At some point during the night, Ignis had pulled his tie off and left it on the chair next to him, rolled his sleeves up. There are, he notes with some chagrin, traces of his hair gel on the paperwork; he must have put his hand in his hair without noticing as well.

 

He ends up passing out in his shirt and underwear as soon as his head hits the pillow, not enough time between the hour he’d unwittingly stayed up to and the time his alarm will go off.  


 

* * *

   


Noct wakes to someone shaking his shoulder, gentle but firm, his phone shrieking across the room, and he groans.

 

As his brain tries to pull itself together-- he cracks his eyes and squints them shut again for a moment, because _light_ \-- and he gets sensation back in his sleep-heavy limbs, the hand retreats.

 

“You mentioned you have work today,” says someone, deep and smoothly-accented, and Noct tries to kick his brain into gear a little faster because shit, he has work today.

 

“Augh,” says Noct. Something smells like. Coffee. And food?

 

“Have you got a change of clothes, or will you need to borrow something?” they ask.

 

“G’t clothes.” mumbles Noct. He manages to keep his eyes open, although his eyelids are really trying to fight him on that one.

 

It’s pretty worth it, because he’s pretty sure the image of this guy freshly-showered in the morning light and dimmed recessed cans, with an apron over his shirt and slacks, is burned in his head now. The messy hair is flattering. Noct will never wake up to anything like this for himself in his actual life, so he decides to appreciate the unexpected view while he has it.

 

Ignis has lean and muscled forearms, and the top few buttons on his shirt are undone.  He’s across the room, and bends forward to turn off Noct’s phone alarm once he’s apparently satisfied that Noct’s awake, and wow, that’s sure a sight.

 

The whole place kind of reeks of loneliness and probable singleness. It’s like encountering an accountant unicorn with slight overbite that manages to make _acne scars_ look cute. The taken-down and turned-over photos suggest a bad breakup, which is kind of mind-boggling madness for Noct to imagine; in general, being in the apartment feels like he’s stepped into another dimension.

 

Also, never would he ever have guessed from looking at the place that the guy would own a purple leopard-print shirt. Even if it’s a dark purple and a subtle print that’s probably gonna get hidden under a jacket and black tie.

 

“What do you prefer for breakfast?” asks Ignis.

 

“Uhh,” says Noct. Normally his stomach tries to pick a fight with breakfast, except for a few weird and kind of gross things, like ribs or leftover diner fries.

 

He kind of feels like taking a risk, though. Nothing Ignis has tried to feed him so far has been bad, and Noct has a contentious relationship with food at best.

 

“What you’re having smells good?” he offers.

 

“Just an omelet with some ham, and some vegetables from the corner store.” says Ignis. “I’m surprised it didn’t wake you when I used the hairdryer. Or when I came back.”

 

“I’ve heard I sleep like the dead.” says Noct, rubbing the back of his head with one hand.

 

He’s not about to tell a stranger, but--at one point it was some kind of pseudo-narcolepsy. He’d toss and turn or stare at the ceiling at night, no matter how worn out he got, but if he didn’t crash during the day he’d just lose time or fall asleep on his feet.

 

Time’s helped, and staying off night shifts, but he should still probably get to a pharmacy with his next paycheck, just in case the head meds are the tiebreaker for him staying awake most of the day and relatively stable. Probably better not to risk it after so long.

 

He’s not doing the greatest job of looking after himself. Even this random stranger’s doing better at it than Noct.

 

The omelet has bell peppers, which Noct isn’t usually a fan of, and onion and mushroom. There’s something leafy, too, and something he tentatively identifies as dried tomato.

 

It tastes really good. He ends up eating his own so fast that he feels a little ill, stomach protesting.

 

He goes ahead and rinses things and loads the dishwasher again, like the night before, because there wasn’t enough in it to run a load before. It’s close, now. It’ll be there if Noct eats there another night, but he probably won’t, and that’s probably for the best.

 

Ignis seems to appreciate it.

 

“Feel free to use the hairdryer,” says Ignis on the way out the door, “and don’t worry about locking the door behind you.”

 

“Got it,” says Noct, and hoping that’s not a hint that he smells too rough, because he’s not looking forward to trying to wash his hair one-handed.

 

He remembers something, from visiting Prompto, and he thinks to peek under the sink. Score. There’s bags full of grocery bags there; he can at least use one to cover his infected hand in the shower. And he’s got at least one more pair of clean underwear with him, plus more at the work locker.

 

He’s not gonna be as much use as usual running deep-fat fryers and assembling sandwiches. Dammit, is he even going to be up to register duty? He _has_ to pull his weight at work.

 

 

* * *

   


This time, Ignis remembers two things at work that he hadn’t the day before: a significantly large flask of coffee, and the fact that someone is in his home, although presumably not much longer.

 

Ignis had kept a straight face, but it was entertaining to watch the wary expression as Noct had poked at his food, followed by surprise and then enjoyment. Perhaps he does enjoy cooking more than he’d remembered or expected; because he’s got a strange loose energy despite the work he’d put into it.

 

The audience might make a difference. Plenty of company functions involve food, he thinks. That might be one way to to branch out to meet some more enthusiastic eaters, if-- when-- if-- depending on how the audit goes.

 

Or he could just take a cooking class. That was something people his age did to meet others, right?

 

Originally, he’d taken the short jog to the store in interests of hunting for supplies for sandwiches, or rice balls, or anything that’d make a more nourishing lunch than something from a vending machine, but he’d gotten distracted by the produce, and, well--

 

He really should have remembered to grab bread.

 

Reluctantly, he resigns to ordering in when the time comes. He can still eat in the break room by the vending machines. It’s a bad time all around to start trying to socialize more at work.

 

The feeling that it’s a bad time doesn’t leave him when he sees that Titus Drautos is hovering outside Ignis’ division offices, legs crossed, leaning on the wall.

 

“That didn’t take long,” he says.

 

“Sir?” says Ignis.

 

“Don’t sir me, son.” says Drautos, standing.with his hands still in his pockets. “I...regret how I said what I did yesterday. I don’t know you well enough to comment on your matters, and you don’t know me well enough to know how to take it.” he says.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Mr. Drautos.” Ignis replies.

 

“Just--” he lowers his voice a bit-- “it’s not a secret that I’ve dated men. I prefer not to date at work, myself, but it’s not like I care about water-cooler gossip. It’s a joke with me that I razz people about it and act like I’m a hardass.” He pulls out his hands to splay as he gives a tired grin. “You know, ‘he still serves the coffee and he was stepping out on you, clearly you were wasting your time with him’. Ta-da.”

 

“Ah. So that’s what you meant by…’indiscretion’?” asks Ignis.

 

The man starts for a moment. “You’ve got a real sticker of a memory, you know that? But yeah. We’re pretty loose with the idols here, as far as keeping out of their personal lives. You’re the age of some of those crazy kids. I forget that it’s, you know, a different work context.” says Mr. Drautos.

 

Ignis considers that with a bit of a sour feeling; he’s not sure he like Mr. Drautos’ sense of humor, and he certainly doesn’t like picturing somebody who handles a lot of the younger independent contract entertainers speaking to them that way.

 

It’all too easy to picture, is the problem. He’ll say he does it because he cares. He’ll sell himself as one thing, keep the rules changing-- don’t the Glaives have the heaviest employee rotation and losses, the most temps, with the staunchest ones being the ones who Drautos has been negotiating with face-to-face at the table since they were young?

 

“Thank you for taking the time to...clarify things with me.” says Ignis, civil as he prefers to be, and the man waves before he begins his amble back off.

 

He’d tried to twist the memory of the moment, and give an apology that wasn’t an apology. And it didn’t happen until after Ignis had been handed the audit.

 

In fact, the day he’d been handed the audit, very moments before, he’d behaved in a way that might be seen as trying to provoke Ignis in front of the board.

 

“Ms. Eishett?” he says.

 

He tries not to jump out of his skin when she ghosts up behind him. “You know it’s Monica.” she sighs. “Yes?”

 

“I’m afraid we’ll need copies of as many of those files as possible _today_.” he says quietly. “It’s short notice, but--”

 

A lot of their office overlooks Monica, or chooses to focus on gossip about her choice of quiet regarding her love life.

 

Something a bit dangerous radiates off her, to him. She’s steady. Her smile is soft. It still makes him think of a shark.

 

“Well, it would be a shame if anything went missing before we could get it.” she replies. Her voice goes even lower. “And it will be good to find out early if any is already gone.”

 

His jaw tightens. He hadn’t thought of that. “Thank you. Please hurry.”  


_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they FINALLY meet in chapter three  
> thank you so much for the kudos and comments!! y'all are awesome  
> still trucking along with this


	4. the sigh that blew me forward

The diner’s at a lull when the jingling bell turns out to be announcing Prompto’s entrance. Karin’s back in from smoke break, anyway. So he takes his break a little early. He’s only been on his feet a couple hours, but all his joints are aching.

 

Once he’s out, he takes a careful look at Prompto as he approaches. There’s circles under his eyes, almost purple against his complexion, and he’s starting to look a little too skinny again. His hair’s spiked up into the ridiculous chocobo-butt style like usual, but even _it_ seems to be drooping somehow.

 

His outfit’s pretty rad, though. Kind of punky.

 

“Hey,” he says, taking a moment to bump a shoulder and arm against Prompto’s, a press of human contact. The relief at a familiar face is kind of taking the breath out of him. “Lookin’ sharp, Prom.”

 

Prompto lets out a weak laugh. “Fringe benefits of work, at least. They’re having some kind of filing problem with my division. I’m starting to consider just not going home until I get paid.” He pauses. “It sucks keeping my gear on me, though. I’m always a little worried about getting mugged.”

 

“Shouldn’t your contract--” Noct starts, and then his jaw clicks shut, because _he’s_ the one who made the rule.

 

“Sorry, shouldn’t have brought it up,” says Prompto.

 

“No.” says Noct. He slides into one of the beat-up burgundy vinyl booths, and after hovering for a moment, Prompto slides across from him. “It...sounds like we have a lot to catch up on. I’ll wait to hear more, but actually, something weird might be going on.”

 

“Where have you been, anyway? Have you found a place that’ll skip the deposit? Did you talk to your dad?” asks Prompto.

 

“I’d, uh, kind of been hoping you’d gotten paid before me and that I could sneak around the rules to crash at yours.” Noct admits. “I’ve spent the last two nights with some guy who found me passed out in the snow.”

 

“Wait, what?” says Prompto. “Dude. Dude!”

 

“I know, I know,” says Noct.

 

“You’ve been taking your meds?” asks Prompto.

 

“I’m good through next paycheck, and I only missed a night. No, uh,” he says, “someone tried to grab me less than a block away outside because I’m an idiot.”

 

“ _What?_ ” says Prompto. “Forget my love life and landlord drama, you gotta catch me up stat.”

 

Noct sighs.

 

“So I didn’t end up talking to my dad.” he says. “I made it to his floor, but he was-- uh-- having a fight with someone in his office. You could hear the yelling all the way down the hall. They were really having it out. And it just...reminded me, y’know,” he swallows, “of the doctor saying he needs to cut down on his stress, and I was gonna wait and just talk to him after, but. I was mad, and I didn’t want to stress him out even more after all that, so I just...left.”

 

“Aw, geez, buddy,” says Prompto, looking earnestly sympathetic, like it’s not Noct’s dad’s company’s fault he’s considering sleeping in coffee shops while holding two jobs.

 

“But anyway,” Noct adds, pulling at his sleeve a little to rub his wrists, “they had masks and I didn’t get plates. It was in a blind spot between buildings. These guys were pros, but they weren’t prepared-- seemed like an opportunity thing-- and they didn’t expect me to know how to fight.”

 

He almost mentions the needle.

 

Prompto laughs a little. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Who would?” asks Prompto, holding a hand out to take a look. He lets out a low whistle, wincing as he prods the bruises peeking out of the bandages. “You go to a clinic or something?”

 

“No, after I broke someone’s nose and booked it, I...ended up on the wrong bus and got off at the wrong stop.” says Noct. “Ended up passing out in front of the apartments by Myrmidon Row.”

 

“I’m surprised someone with a six-figure didn’t call the cops on you.” replies Prompto.

 

Noct huffs out a laugh. “Me too.” he says. “I think the guy took me for homeless. I mean, I guess technically I am, but it’s just-- me and my stupid pride. He carried me in and patched me up.”

 

“What’s he like?” asks Prompto.

 

“I don’t know what he does,” says Noct, shrugging. “But he works long hours and wears a suit. The place looks like it oughtta belong to a thirty-something, but he can’t be much older than me. And I might have snooped around while he was gone and found his sex toys.”

 

“ _Noct!_ ” says Prompto, but then he lowers his voice and waggles his eyebrows. “So what, is he secretly a high-end pimp? Or is it fleshlights for the lonely businessman?”

 

“I think he’s an accountant or something. He could be gay?” says Noct. “It was mostly prostate stuff. Like. Probes. And some simple, basic bondage stuff. Nothing freaky. There wasn’t anything bigger around than--” he gestures about the diameter of the narrow pepper shaker, “--that I could see.”

 

“I dunno, that sounds like more than enough adventure for me.” says Prompto, and this time he gives a little more of a real laugh. “So-- what are you gonna do?”

 

“I...don’t think I’m going to go to the police.” Noct replies. “Now I’m even less sure about talking to my dad. Someone should probably warn him, but...what if they were trying to grab me to pressure him about something? I’m not exactly set to inherit.”

 

“Well, yeah,” says Prompto, “but he’d still probably pay like a billion bucks to make sure you’d be safe, and, well,” he gives a little awkward squirmy shrug, “you’re worth it.”

 

“Dude,” he says, flipping his good hand around to grip Prompto’s. “You too.”

 

_“Dude,”_ says Prompto.

 

They let themselves have a touching moment of dude solidarity.

 

“I’ll put out word to a few places, and worst comes to worst, I can survive a couple of weeks taking night shifts and sleeping in the library until things settle down with the merger.” says Noct. “Then I’ll...talk to my dad about letting him help me with a deposit and through college. _While,_ ” he says, holding a finger up at Prompto’s expression, “holding a job. And I’ve gotta keep my GPA up. And we’ll have to agree on a major. I’m not taking a free ride.”

 

Prompto’s eyes are suspiciously shiny. “You’re growing up, man.” he says. “I’m proud of you. No, really.”

 

“I still don’t know what I’m gonna do with my future, though.” Noct admits. “It really hit me at that guy’s place-- looks like he’s a bachelor, and he cooks _and_ cleans. And he cooks _well_. He dresses good. I’ve gotta get my life together.”

 

“But will you be the Noct we all know and love without the cases of midnight crazies, the food-mooching, and the naps?” muses Prompto, batting his eyelashes. Then he pauses. “Oh! That reminds me!”

 

There’s a jingling noise as he reaches in his pocket, and then, of all things, a collar gets deposited on the table between them.

 

It’s just a thin strap in a soft black suede, lined, with a simple matte silver buckle and little metal ring that keeps a little matching bell attached. He stares down at it, waiting to hear the punchline.

 

“One of the things they sent me home with from a shoot. It made me think of you. Because you’re like a housecat.” says Prompto.

 

“Really?” asks Noct. He snorts.

 

“The hours you keep. How picky you are. The way you’ll whine for food.” Prompto waits a beat. “That time with the laser pointer.”

 

“ _Hey!_ ” says Noct, but he’s laughing. “I can kind of see it. If I’m a cat, you’re a chocobo, though.”

 

“My hair does _not_ look like a chocobo’s butt!” Prompto protests. “Anyway, hey, sounds like this guy is kinky. Maybe you can be a...professional gigolo.” He waggles his eyebrows again.

 

Noct laughs a little harder. “God, _no_ ,” he says, “and anyway, I think this guy’s outta my league. Why don’t you fill me in on your love life, instead? So the barista was actually dating-- your boss?”

 

“No, technically Mr. Leonis is my boss, but we’re a lot of steps removed and he only checks my contracts every few months, I think?” replies Prompto. “This guy runs all of Financial or something. I, uh, ran into him in the bathroom. Tuil was like, fuming that he’s taking it fine, but he actually looks like he’s taking it...pretty rough. I felt so bad.”

 

Noct winces. “Yowch. How’d you handle that?”

 

“It was _awful_.” moans Prompto. “I was kind of terrified of him, because everyone talks like he’s a machine or something, and the most I’d ever seen of him was when he did some kind of fancy chef knife thing at that barbecue you missed. But...I think he might just be awkward.”

 

“What did you say?” asks Noct.

 

“Well, like, no, it gets worse,” says Prompto, “he heard me talking about him. I thought the bathroom was empty and I-- called Aranea.”

 

“Oh no.” says Noct, covering his mouth, and making a very valiant effort not to laugh at Prompto’s suffering.

 

“He _apologized_ . For _eavesdropping_.” Prompto groans again. “I said something to her about being worried he’d get me fired, and I tried to apologize for being The Other Woman or whatever and blubbered, and he basically told me he didn’t care enough about me to fire me. I think he was trying to make me feel better and didn’t know how.”

 

“Aw, _no,_ ” says Noct in sympathy.

 

“Right?” says Prompto. “And he’s, like, super hot, too. He’s wasted in the office. Everyone keeps trying to act like he had it coming, but,” he hesitates, “I dunno, the more time goes on, the more I’m finding out about Tuil that I don’t really like. I’m just not feeling great all around, right now. He lets me crash at his place, though. Even if we haven’t banged since, uh, his boyfriend walked in on us.”

 

“I kind of wouldn’t want to.” says Noct. “No offense.”

 

“I’m not sure I do, either.” Prompto admits. “He might be trying to guilt me about it a little? It’s hard to tell. I’m gonna have to make some decisions about what I’m comfortable with.”

 

“Man, I don’t envy you.” says Noct. “I feel bad, but I might actually have to go back to that guy’s place for another night or two while I bug people for somewhere else to go. Unless he’s sick of me already.”

 

“Maybe...we could try to find a place we can split, when things settle down?” says Prompto.

 

“I thought you’d never ask!” replies Noct, mock-offended. “For real, though, that should be great. It’s a plan. And...what I was gonna say earlier, about your contract.”

 

“You don’t gotta talk about the business,” says Prompto.

 

Noct shakes his head. “Your contract should include insurance that covers your gear.” he says. “And everyone should be getting paid their promised numbers on the same schedule. I know enough to know that much. My dad wasn’t just getting stressed and worked up about the merger-- something’s been hinky with the accounting.”

 

“That’s heavy stuff.” says Prompto. “I can’t remember a time my check’s been on time and nothing’s gone wrong with it. Every time word goes around the division about it, it’s always ‘We’ve tried talking to the higher-ups about it, Accounting won’t even hear you, it’s happening to us too,’ but--” his voice lowers. “I just don’t think the complaints have been going through. And some of these guys that say they’re in the same boat...you know it means something when I say that that they’re really, really not living like it, ‘cause I’ve known some real born-to-die types.”

 

“Even if it was normal to have that much trouble getting paid-- which it’s not-- it shouldn’t be.” says Noct. “People deserve to live.”

 

Prompto just shakes his head a little. “It’s not your job to fix the world, Noct.” he says. “But for what it’s worth? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit for how good you could be with stuff like this.”

 

“It’s just because I grew up with it.” says Noct. “Get Cor to look at your contract, and bring him your deposit stubs and check copies. He’ll make time. It matters, okay?”

 

“Right. ‘Hi, Mr. Leonis, please don’t eat me, but my best friend thinks I don’t get paid enough-- no nepotism or anything.’” says Prompto.

 

“Prom _pto_ ,” Noct groans, “he’s not that bad. And he wouldn’t want something like this happening under his name. Believe me. And I listened when you said you wanted your work to stand on its own value.”

 

“Noct,” says Prompto, “your dad knows my name. One time, he put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was eating enough. My soul went through puberty again all in one moment, _including_ the weird crush.”

 

“ _Prompto_ , that’s my _dad._ ” groans Noct, laying his face on the ageless ugly flecked diner table.

 

“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree!” says Prompto defensively.”You just-- got good genes on both sides!”

 

“Oh my _god_ , Prom.” says Noct, but he’s laughing, and turning a little red.

 

Vesta, the manager, startles them when she drops their usual basket of fries between them, and takes a moment to laugh at their faces before heading for the back.

 

“She seems to think we live off of, like, half as much grease as we do,” says Prompto, barely pausing to cram a couple in his face. “Like we’re about to waste away or something.”

 

“My stomach is gonna fight these.” says Noct. “I don’t care. _I’m_ gonna fight these. With my _face_.”

 

“Says the traitor who likes fast food fries more than diner fries,” starts Prompto.

 

Noct blanches a little and gives Prompto a light kick under the table. “Hey, they’re here, they’re hot, and I’m a potato boy.” he says. It comes out defensive and a little louder than he meant.

 

The diner is quiet. Too quiet. He can faintly hear chuffing noises even over the sounds of the kitchen.

 

He realizes his error too late, although at least it’s not bringing up the hot-and-crispy versus classic-greaseball debate in a _franchise diner_. Again.

 

Prompto stares at him solemnly for a long moment. “Hey, Karin,” he says, “did you know Noct is a potato boy?”

 

His straight face cracks, and he starts to dissolve into cackles.

 

“Damn straight!” yells Karin from behind the register. “Hey, potato boy, your date gonna last until rush hits?”

 

“I’ve told you, it’s strictly bromantic.” says Prompto. “You see--” He gives a grand gesture. “We’re actually identical twins, separated at birth!”

 

“Ah, yes, I’d wondered,” says Karin blandly. “I mean, you basically look like the same person, right? Which one of you’s which, again?”

 

She makes a show of squinting between Prompto’s blond, still-sun-kissed-in-winter self, with a delicate-boned face that was already kind of elven back when he was fat, and is even _moreso_ decked out like a hipster without thinking about it, in a stupid beanie, with his hair making a good fight against gravity.

 

He’s Prompto, of course, so he doesn’t believe it. And he seems to be under the illusion that Noct’s the hot friend of the two, even _after_ seeing Noct before nine in the morning on a weekend.

 

“Oh yeah,” she says, looking at Noct, “he’s the potato boy.”

 

“ _Hey!_ ” says Noct.

 

“It’s okay, buddy.” says Prompto, patting him on the arm. “You’re a very handsome potato. You, uh, seem kind of attached to the sweatpants, but y’know. You could maybe lay around as eye candy somewhere as a backup plan. Maybe.”

 

“I’m wearing jeans,” says Noct, but he discreetly checks just in case.

 

He is. He still ends up lowering his face to the table.

 

“Maybe I need to change things up.” he mumbles into it. “Start spiking my hair and wear skinny jeans.”

 

Prompto winces. “Maybe you...shouldn’t...repeat the skinny jeans?” he suggests. “Since...the incident.”

 

Noct stops to reflect on it, and his brain grinds to a halt as it settles on why he never replaced his last pair of skinny jeans. Right.

 

“How bad was the eyeliner?” he asks, defeated.

 

“Does goth care if it’s dead?” asks Prompto philosophically in response, munching on another fry.

 

By the time his break’s over and he’s waving Prompto off, nothing’s really fixed, but he feels lighter.

 

It must make a difference. It ends up one of the days he ends his shift behind the register instead of in the kitchen, deemed sociable and lucid enough to deal with the general public by Crow’s Nest Conduct & Quality Standards-- or at least by Vesta’s standards that he won’t botch orders, or put people off from approaching the counter by accident.

 

 

* * *

   


They won’t be able to keep word quiet about the audit for much longer. Some people have to know already, but the digital records are notoriously short on detail and haven’t quite matched the books he’s compared them to, which means going through the physical copies of the worst offenders.

 

This means some volume of boxes being transported back and forth, which means questions, and on top of that, there’s more visitors lining up at his offices than usual.

 

With budget requisitions gone to a case-by-case bottleneck with upheaval of the budget, and his assistants not seeming to understand which things he is and is not interested in going over with a fine-toothed comb, the appearance of Monica is akin to the arrival of a cat-hoarding lesbian angel to deliver him. Finally, someone with the wisdom and authority to leave in charge while he goes to help locate and retrieve the right boxes.

 

She’s also tugging an extra hand truck behind her, which she offers looking somewhat bemused. He suspects he himself looks rather harried; there’s simply not enough of him to be in as many places as he needs to at once.

 

_“Thank you,”_ he breathes, and “Could you--”

 

“Came to relieve you of some of the chaos.” she says. “Go on.”

 

He rushes to catch up with his assistant Myrna, who’s already on her way down the hall.

 

It’s important that he confirm with his own eyes what he already suspects: some of the records he’d marked personally for examination are simply not there. What he can find that looks even a little useful, he grabs then and there--

 

And then, vision partly obscured, arms laden, he feels a hand tug his sleeve. “I can get that for you,” says someone unfamiliar.

 

When he very carefully looks, it proves to be one of the younger roadies from the Glaives. She’s already got some of the boxes Myrna’s been carrying, and appears to be distracted ogling Myrna.

 

“I see we have a volunteer.” he says, opting instead to settle the pile on the hand truck as he’d meant to.

 

“Well, you know,” she says, shrugging and giving a tight smile, “at first I thought I was watching a lady struggle on her own,” with a jerk of her head toward Myrna.

 

This gives Ignis a moment of pause, because he’s sent Myrna down ahead of him twice, albeit only to scope things out the first time. Still, he suspects there’s more to the offered hand than youthful flirting happening in front of him.

 

“We’d appreciate the help, ah..?” says Ignis.

 

“Crowe,” says the young woman.

 

Ignis nods. “I’m Ignis.” he responds, and then, when Myrna continues blushing and looking at the floor instead of introducing herself, “This is my assistant Myrna. We were just arranging things for the haul back to Financial. If it’s alright with you, since you look a bit stronger, you and I could each carry some while Myrna takes the hand truck.”

 

“Of course,” she says, “but there’s something you might not want to forget.”

 

“Oh?” says Ignis.

 

“But nobody will look if we’re carrying things.” Crowe adds. “Nobody wants to get asked to work on something that’s not their business.”

 

“No, they just want to talk about it,” he sighs as he follows her out of the division’s records room and down a few unfamiliar twists and turns of the corridors, to what looks like a maintenance closet.

 

Nobody else is in the hallway, and she takes a cautious look back and forth before pulling some keys on a lanyard out of her pocket.

 

Once it’s unlocked and swinging open, he sees her crouch and pick some long, fine hairs out of the air that he hadn’t noticed before they can drift to the floor.

 

“I’ve got brothers.” says Crowe at his look. “Well. Sort of. It looks like nobody’s been here since me,” and then he’s looking at a stack of financial records boxes for the Glaives from scattered months and years, all of them ones he’d marked for an extra-close look.

 

“I’m sorry.” she says. “This is all I could save.”

 

“Oh no.” says Myrna, who he didn’t hire for being particularly slow. She puts a hand over her mouth.

 

“Who wanted these destroyed?” asks Ignis, sharp. Crowe’s face purses and she shakes her head.

 

“ _I_ have no idea.” she says. “It’s been _years_. We just get memos sometimes on some of the boxes, and we don’t get paid to ask questions. ‘These need shipped out.’ ‘This is confidential, we can’t keep it.’ ‘This got misplaced, put it back before anyone needs it.’”

 

“‘Put it back’?” Ignis repeats.

 

“You’ve got some of these.” says Crowe. “But I don’t think they’re the same thing. Because these ones, I was told to shred. And-- I wasn’t supposed to look at them, but...they don’t look the same.”

 

She rubs at one arm, looking thunderous and defensive. “Believe what you want.” she says. “I don’t care if I’m in trouble. I had to do what looked like the right thing.”

 

“Young lady,” says Ignis, “you’ve just saved me a great deal of difficulty. All of these are necessary for me to do my job correctly.”

 

“I know who you are.” says Crowe. “You’re not well-liked around here. When we can’t afford full safety gear, when our coverage tries to weasel out of it at the clinic, when our checks are late-- it’s always the same thing. ‘Take it up with Financial. I’ve already tried. It’s on your head.’ Titus takes credit for sorting things, and we-- start to take his word for it. I did try taking my complaints in. Do you know what I was told?”

 

Ignis squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Infuriatingly, I’d imagine, that all checks are issued the same day and that doing so is essential to the bookwork. I would know, Crowe Altius. I used to sign yours.”

 

“ _That’s_ interesting.” she says darkly. “You say they are signed on the right day, but they don’t end up in our hands?”

 

“You’ve got no reason to trust or believe me, and I don’t blame you.” says Ignis. “But from the sounds of things, something is very, very wrong. Myrna,” he says.

 

“Sir?” says Myrna.

 

“Crowe and I will take these back to Monica. I need you to seize all payroll from the Glaives and re-issue any checks that haven’t been deposited. Until the budget is fixed,” and he swallows, because this is a decision he really, really doesn’t want to make, “we’re only going to be handing over checks personally.”

 

“That might be a problem for a few people who don’t carry ID on them, or get a buddy to pick up their check, or--” starts Crowe, and then her jaw clicks shut.

 

_It’s been_ years, she’d said. She hardly looks older than Myrna, and some of that is the wiry, skinny muscle, the scars that peek out around her work clothes, the sharp cut of her jaw.

 

“Or who get paid in cash?” he asks, soft.

 

She doesn’t answer, jaw tight and a tendon standing out on her neck.

 

“I can see I’ll have to proceed delicately from here.” says Ignis. “Could I possibly trouble you on the walk with discussing ways to make this a better-- and not worse-- situation for the Glaives?”

 

Crowe just stares at him.

 

“Anyone else you could get to come forward who’s paid by check, particularly who has physical records to show being paid late, would be a boon as well, but I understand why trust would be running thin right now.” he adds.

 

Squinting at him, Crowe puts her hands on her hips.

 

Then, she slaps him on the back, laughing although a bit humorlessly. “I like this one,” she tells Myrna, who doesn’t seem to know any more than Ignis what to make of it. “I’ll do what I can to help.” she says, fiercely.   
  
“If someone’s been fucking over the Glaives? We look after our own. I-- didn’t do this to get someone in trouble,” says Crowe, mouth twisting, and there’s fire in her eyes, “but if someone has trouble coming, I want to see _justice_ done.”

 

“It sounds like we’ve got a lot to talk about, then.” says Ignis. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face how much he’s starting to feel in over his head; the closer he looks, the more problems he’s finding.

 

 

* * *

 

  


At the end of his shift, the diner’s empty and the fading daylight is nigh-orange, painting long shadows over the world.

 

Noct’s lower lip is caught between his teeth as he slumps further, staring at the last of the messages to come in on his phone.

 

Nobody can offer their place for the night.

 

He knows what some of his options are. The diner’s open pretty late tonight, if not as often overnight as some other locations are; he could also spend the night walking until the library opens and crash there, or just crash in the back of a bus that isn’t busy, but neither’s particularly comfortable or safe. He can’t really say he looks forward to any of them, worn out as he is, every joint aching.

 

Of course, there’s still two people he hasn’t tried contacting.

 

One is his father, and he’s putting off that conversation as long as he possibly can. The other is Ignis. God. The guy probably just traded numbers to be polite and is glad to have Noct out of his hair. He’s kind of gone above and beyond for a stranger already.

 

Then, his indecision is answered for him by his phone buzzing in his hand.

 

_Severe temperature warnings for the night on the news_ , says the text.

 

Then: _You have somewhere safe to go?_

 

Before he can think better of it, he taps out an answer. _Think you could spare your couch another night? If not, I’ll live_

 

_Do you know the way back? I’ll buzz you into the building._ responds Ignis, instantly, and the floor seems to tilt under Noct for a moment when he processes it, because it’s too generous, and maybe he should be feeling some kind of guilt or worry, but all he can manage is relief.

 

_I’m good. Need me to pick anything up on the way?_ he opts to ask, hoping the answer is no, because he’s not flat-broke yet but cash is tight.

 

_No, I may have gotten too many groceries by accident. How does meat pie sound_? Ignis replies.

 

The honest answer is ‘Who knows?’, but what he types is _Sounds great_. It’s not actually a lie; he has, in fact, managed to hit his limit when it comes to diner fare and fast food, and anything real sounds like a potential improvement.

 

Noct suspects that even if there’s something he won’t like in it, he’ll still be able to finish it anyway. It’s too bad he probably hasn’t absorbed even a tiny bit of cooking skills by proximity, because Ignis seems to be pretty good at it.

 

He shoots Prompto a text about where he’s going, figuring he should stay checked in with _somebody_.

 

Noct sort of knows the neighborhood, but he also has the address of the building saved in his phone. The whole way there, he tries to decide whether to reconsider or not, but-- even if he’s worried about what he’ll do if there’s a catch to staying there this time, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

 

Nobody pays attention to him on the buses. He’s got some of his things changed out between the bag and the locker, but he’ll need to hit up a laundromat soon, too, unless he can sneak to use the laundry room at Ignis’ building or something. And he can’t keep running back to whoever will just feed him; he’s got to start carrying some kind of snacks on him that’ll keep him steady during the day.

 

The twenty-minute trip is made into something more like thirty-five, with some time spent shivering in a bus shelter waiting for a late transfer, but he finds his way back to the entry room before the electronically locked door.

 

Not only does he still have the apartment number noted, but there’s a directory that he hadn’t peeked at before that says _Scientia, Ignis_ right next to his number. He takes a deep breath in and holds it as he presses the number in the keypad, hopes he’s getting the buttons right, listens to the harsh atonal buzzer. Then the speaker crackles.

 

_“Hello?”_ says Ignis’ voice through the little speaker, distorted.

 

“Uh, hey, it’s Noct.” he replies.

 

The crackling from the speaker falls silent, and he wonders for a moment if he’s gotten something wrong, or if Ignis has changed his mind after all, but there’s a quieter buzz from the door lock as the light flicks from red to green.

 

He tries not to second-guess himself or panic on the way up, or in front of Ignis’ door. He knows he probably smells like diner grease and looks like hell, but he can’t look worse than he did the first night.

 

Gripping the strap of his duffel bag with one hand, he takes a deep breath, raises the other, and knocks.

 

The door opens with his hand still raised.  
  
“You know where the coat closet and boot tray are.” says Ignis, heading right back for the kitchen.

 

“Right,” replies Noct, watching him for a moment. His hair’s spiked up again, but his jacket and tie are off and his sleeves are rolled up.

 

He closes the door behind him and gets his things settled. The air is warm and smells like...well, food. There’s even a salad on the counter.

 

“The pie will be a bit, but there’s rolls if you’re feeling peckish.” says Ignis. “I’m afraid I’ve more work to do from home tonight,” he adds, gesturing at his laptop on the table, “so it’ll be up to you to make yourself comfortable, if you don’t mind..?”

 

“Uh, no, not at all. I-- thanks for having me over.” says Noct.

 

He’s not sure what to make of it all. It won’t change anything, but he spares a moment to feel a little guilty about having snooped around the guy’s place; clearly, Ignis is pretty sure by now that at least Noct isn’t going to rob him or something.

 

At least it looks like Prompto’s replied.

 

_hes letting u crash there again?? and ur sure hes not a serial killer?_ he’s said, followed by:

 

_ ‘meat pie’ ( ¬ _ ¬ ;) _

 

Noct stifles a laugh.

 

_ think he might be lonely? _ he says.  _ not sure he knows how to talk to people. but he’s like a real adult. he feeds himself salad on purpose with his other food _

 

_ ‘real adult’ what are you then? _ asks Prompto.  _ stupid question!! you are an adult, but, like, an adult cat. _

 

_ that COLLAR is still in my pocket _ Noct replies, trying not to flush at the reminder.  _ is it time to bring back emo? _

 

_ or you could be ~just a gigolo. _ says Prompto.

 

_ noooooooooooooo, _ says Noct.  _ he’s working from home again tonight, I think he just didn’t trust me not to die on my own. _

 

_ i dont always trust you not to die on your own! actually dont let him pressure you into anything. dont do anything i wouldnt do! _ says Prompto.

 

_ what WOULDN’T you do? _ asks Noct.

 

_ rude! _ says Prompto.

 

Once the timer’s going off, Ignis turns out to have made pies, plural. 

 

The dinner’s a little awkward. The rolls are great, buttery and sweet. Noct worries about the salad, starts out picking at it cautiously, but the dressing Ignis sets out for it is savory.

 

Anything leafy and green still tastes bitter to him, but maybe he’s growing up a little or something, because after a few nibbles, it’s not, like, going to be one of his favorite foods or anything, but-- it’s not bad. 

 

The pie is pretty much what it sounds like, mixed meat and vegetables as its filling, and it turns out to be the surprise offender. Something in the seasonings in it feels like it’s leaving a film in Noct’s mouth that kind of burns a little, leaving his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. 

 

It’s not  _ actually _ an allergic reaction, so he paces it with bites of roll and saves the some of the salad for after in hopes that the texture will help scrub it away. 

 

It seems to help. Ignis seems like he might be amused at the idiosyncrasies of how Noct eats his food; he’s kind of hard to read.

 

“Same drill as before for the cleanup?” he asks, even if he doesn’t really want to, and he does find some satisfying feeling of indulgence in  _ finally _ loading enough into the dishwasher and running a load.

 

He needs to get changed into something to sleep in, and he didn’t end up showering before work, too worried about the extra time it’d take to re-bandage his hand.

 

“Is,” he starts, feeling awkward. “Is that offer to use your shower still open?”

 

“Of course.” says Ignis without even looking up from his work. He seems pretty focused on whatever it is he’s doing.

 

Even considering the guy carried him in unconscious the other day, Noct’s feeling reasonably weird about being naked in a stranger’s home. He grabs his things in a hurry, glad he remembers where the towels are supposed to be, and ends up slumping against the door for a moment once he’s actually got it closed and locked.

 

The shower-tub is, at least, not hard to figure out and get started.

 

As it starts to warm, he takes the time to brush his teeth. Noct tries not to look at himself too closely in the bathroom mirror once he’s shucked his clothes off; staring and poking at his bruises has kind of lost its novelty, anyway. If he lets himself look, he’ll start asking if his back is pulling even further to one side, if the old scars are standing out more than usual-- so he just. Doesn’t.

 

There’s good water pressure from the spray, and he steps in carefully, lets out a little hiss through his teeth as it hits him. It’s erring on the side of too hot, and it’s a lot at once, but he can already feel himself start to loosen.

 

He grimly focuses on scrubbing himself with his good hand. His hair’s the worst. By the time he’s done, he’s gotten suds in his eyes twice, and his shoulder doesn’t want to raise that high anymore on that side.

 

It feels like it takes a million years, but he feels a lot cleaner and probably smells a lot better.

 

Then, when he bends to get his clothes--

 

There’s the bag he keeps in his duffel with his shaving kit and toothbrush. There’s his last pair of clean socks, which he isn’t even wearing to bed/couch. Where’s his sweatpants?   
  
Holding the towel closed at one hip, he unlocks the door and peeks out. It’s a pretty clear line of sight to Ignis’ back at the table, and in the hallway that stretches between, he sees that in his hurry he dropped them.

 

“Dammit,” he says under his breath, because he’s already getting cold and his joints are trying to go stiff again, and he’s probably dripping on the Ignis’ carpet already, and he  _ just wants his sweatpants _ .

 

At that moment Ignis glances up, and then does a double-take. Noct holds his free hand up awkwardly in a little wave and then gestures at his pants as if to explain.

 

He ducks back in to tie the towel around his waist, and nearly collides with Ignis on his way out, stopping much closer than he’d have gotten intentionally.

 

Ignis holds steady eye contact, and he’s a bit taller than Noct, looking down, Noct’s head tipped back unconsciously in response so that Noct isn’t eye-to-chin with him.

 

Heat jumps to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

 

“Here you go,” says Ignis, stepping back politely and holding out the pants.

 

“Thanks.” says Noct.  He can’t figure out where to look; Ignis seems pretty set on burning a hole in Noct’s face with his gaze, and his expression’s hard to read.

 

Ignis’ mouth opens a little, closes again. Oh. Noct had thought it was a trick of the light at first, but he’s blushing a little, too.

 

“Dry your hair before bed.” he says, finally. It comes out flat. “You’ll catch a cold like that.”

 

“Sure,” says Noct, but Ignis is already walking away. “Uh. Thanks!”

 

He closes the door behind him and slides to the floor with his back against it.

 

Up close, he thinks faintly, Ignis’ eyes are  _ really _ green.

 

His phone is in the pile of things he didn’t drop on the way to the bathroom. Unlike his pants. His face goes up in the full flaming flush it’s been threatening to, and it  _ burns _ . He’s managed body-shyness for locker rooms and the bathhouse, but something about Ignis has him flustered and jumpy.

 

_ I don’t think I could be a gigolo _ he tells Prompto.

 

_???????, _ says Prompto.  _ everything good?? dinner go ok? _

 

Noct’s embarrassed, and his heart’s taking too long to slow back down for no good reason. He feels like an idiot worked up over nothing, or maybe the teenager he’s trying to outgrow that he’s kept under wraps in front of a lot of people.

 

_ yeah. _ he responds, putting a hand on his face and dropping the back of his head against the door. 

 

By the time he steps back into the hallway, he’ll be dressed and composed, neutral civility to match to Ignis’ neutral civility. Right now? His face is red, he’s fighting a stupid little smile that he doesn’t even understand, taking deep breaths to calm himself that are a little like breathing fresh air for the first time.

 

_ everything’s kind of great? _ he tells Prompto. 

 

Somehow, he means it.

  
  
  


_ to be continued _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gfdsjgfdkh this glitched posting the first time i'm SO SORRY for ppl who get notifs for as i worked on fixing it! yikes!
> 
> anyway tHANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL THE KIND FEEDBACK AND GENERAL AWESOMENESS? it means a lot! (;w;) i've been writing this partly as a sick-and-sad-snowed-in coping thing. it feels good to know someone else is enjoying it! <3 love y'all!
> 
> this chapter was about halfway written when i posted the last one and is the end of my chapter buffer. if it's better for me to just post chapters as soon as i write them and do a basic edits check (i'm Currently Open For A Fic Beta), or you see any major errors (formatting/spelling/etc), please let me know!


	5. (but i've got the doom and dread)

For all the work on his plate, Ignis is surprised to find himself having an alright week. 

 

The weather warms and clears a little bit, day by day, slowly thawing the dirty slush a little faster than the light dustings of snow in-between can replace it. Crowe hasn’t been back by Financial, but she  _ has _ been texting him pictures of various sights and people during her work breaks, and he’s starting to suspect he’s inadvertently made a friend.

 

She’s not the only one. He’s starting to learn the names of Monica’s cats, knows that she briefly did roller derby in her youth-- and the thought occurs to him that maybe he should mention the local teams to Crowe. He has an all-too-easy time picturing the fierce young woman in one of those gutwrenching bouts.

 

The hours of paperwork and calls are still long, and he’s genuinely concerned about what can  be done once he follows the aberrant numbers to their source. But nothing he’s doing is new, and thanks to Crowe, he has a lot of the pieces. It’s just a matter of time.

 

At first, he’d worried it was too convenient-- but how petty some of the frivolous expense receipts are is just too  _ mediocre _ to be untrue. 

 

He’s finally started adjusting to making breakfast and extra coffee for himself before work.

 

And he realizes, hands on a shopping cart, in the middle of the aisles, that he’s buying groceries on a weekday before sundown. While he’s done enough of his work in the evening from home to make up for it, forgetting to send others and himself home has surprisingly not been a problem.

 

It’s somewhere in the baking aisle, as he’s pondering what Noct might like to snack on between meals, that it hits him what’s changed. 

 

His hand tightens on the bag of-- something. The label he was reading seems to go out of focus as his brain grinds to a halt.

 

He hasn’t actually spoken to Noct about his likes and his dislikes. He hasn’t spoken much with Noct at all. Sometime when he wasn’t looking, he adjusted all too fast to having a strange man practically living on his couch.

 

It feels a little disingenuous to Noct, but it’s just realistic that Ignis could have been far less lucky, and that a stranger will try to be on their best behavior at first. Any  _ kind  _ of surprise that he wouldn’t feel safe or happy living with could crop up. Ignis definitely doesn’t want to deal with anything that might grow from Noct taking his support for granted.

 

It can’t go on forever. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place-- he should have just called the ambulance the first night. Surely the extra effort and trouble of having the less-than-useful company around will wear on him for long, long before the reliable meals and place to sleep lose their appeal. 

 

And surely that’s all there is to it, for Noct. All that brings him back. Ignis can’t exactly blame him.

 

Ignis makes a list of reasons in his head as he finishes his shopping. He’s not comparing pros and cons. He knows what he has to do-- surely he can make himself of use in helping Noct find somewhere more permanent to go. But his mind insists on providing counterpoints to the reasons, if fair ones exist, as if it’s going to change anything. 

 

The only thing he knows for sure about Noct’s job is that it’s minimum wage. He’s not likely to be in a position to contribute meaningfully to the bills, and frankly, it would be cruel and needless to ask him.

 

Ignis doesn’t need the money. But it’s still something to consider.

 

Clearly, Noct flails a bit with some chores and isn’t as tidy as Ignis. That much Ignis can tell for certain will wear on him with time.

 

Ignis doesn’t know his reputation, or any of his friends, or his family. He doesn’t know Noct’s hobbies or dating habits, if Noct is involved in something illegal or unsafe, or anything else that might go on to affect Ignis’ safety in his own home. Ignis’ work involves handling sensitive documents.

 

He hadn’t thought that anything of Noct’s life was his business, or that his was Noct’s, and he’s not sure he wants to. His personal life feels a little raw. He’s barely starting to navigate the beginnings of some work friendships.

 

In the end, what’s more damning to him that it’s time to push Noct to move on is his reasons  _ not  _ to. 

 

He’s been checking the weather and dressing himself more appropriately as a consequence, but his reason for checking has been reminding Noct to put a hat and scarf on before heading out to his shifts. Ignis has been keeping a more human schedule, finally adjusting to start to sleep earlier and enough.

 

He cooks for himself more often. Because he worries about Noct not eating. 

 

He’s already making adjustments to dishes he used to be able to have to a science on hot plate or camp stove with no sleep. The changes are based on guesses of what he can and can’t add, how far he can push things, before Noct’s eating gets slower, more reluctant, involves more of his odd way of arranging and ordering how he eats his food. He knows now that by comparison, Noct practically inhaled the oyakodon the first night; however, his responses to foods haven’t been determined by a dish’s regional origin, specific meat or grain content.

 

...He knows these things about Noct, but not his last name.

 

In a way, it’s almost dehumanizing.

 

He can’t keep leaving the place unlocked for Noct to come and go. Some far-from-rational part of his brain reminds him how he just got a key back, how easy it would be for him to get another keycard to the building-- but, again, Noct is practically a stranger.

 

And it’s not that he doesn’t find Noct attractive. The worst part is that he does. If he’d let himself, he’d stare at the way Noct’s dark eyelashes move over the dark eyes that are shockingly blue up close. Noct is elegantly handsome in a way that both is and isn’t at odds with how stiff and self-conscious he can be.

 

Honestly, for all that he doesn’t seem to take care of his hair-- the layers growing out in an odd, shaggy way, but his hair still healthy and, when clean, tapering to fine ends that still look silky despite the winter-- or care for dressing himself up-- Ignis can’t tell if he appreciates or wants to  _ burn _ those sweatpants--

 

Noct just naturally looks a bit too good to be real.

 

Of course, his brain points out, Noct’s been looking better-rested and better-fed at Ignis’. But that could be wishful thinking.

 

Ignis thinks of the all-too-rare small smile that he sees over Noct’s phone sometimes. It glows. It’s only been directed at him once, unconsciously, when he told Noct he’d done a good job of clearing up after breakfast, and it’d made Ignis’ heart skip a beat over the young man for the first time.

 

It’s another one of the reasons for Ignis to push him along to wherever he’s going with his life. He can’t be much younger, but he radiates more of a  _ sense _ of youngness to Ignis, somehow. He’s not stupid, but he’s unpolished, inexperienced.

 

And so the more Ignis thinks about it, the more stressed rather than relieved he starts to feel about Noct shuffling around his house like a ghost, sitting nigh-silent at Ignis’ table and finding ways to entertain himself with his phone from the couch.

 

There’s no privacy, or place to have friends over, or place for him to work on anything of his own. The couch clearly hurts his back. It’s neither comfortable nor sustainable.

 

He’s not living like a person there. Something has to change.

 

The rest of the grocery trip, Ignis ruminates and broods on it.

 

If a thought occurs to him that part of his hurry may, in fact, be that he’s gotten too comfortable having Noct around and doesn’t want to see him go, wants to steer that loss now that it feels inevitable, he quashes that thought down.

 

There’s nothing, he tells himself, that they have to offer each other beyond the obvious. And his company’s not worthwhile or interesting enough to impose in exchange for basic human needs.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


The thing is, Noct knows the other shoe has to drop sometime. He’s not the easiest to live with even when he’s on his best behavior. And Ignis doesn’t owe him anything.

 

He just also can’t be tensed up waiting for it all the time, even though he knows it’s pretty much guaranteed to come up in a normal moment on a normal day unless he fucks up pretty bad.

 

Today, he’s being kind-of-but-not-really helpful by getting the groceries out of the reusable bags and setting them out for Ignis to put away, by Ignis’ request. At least he catches on fast enough to figure out where some of it goes and put it away in the right spots on his own.

 

The days are getting a little longer. The fading late light is muted by the glazing on the windows, but still casts a broad amber glow into the apartment that’s leaving Noct feeling warm and sleepy, off-guard.

 

So when Ignis clears his throat and asks, “Have you been giving thought to your housing situation in the future?”, Noct’s stomach feels like it sinks, and he tries not to let it show.

 

“A buddy should have things sorted at his place by now to let me crash there a little while,” he says, but he can’t keep that hesitance out of his voice.

 

“And this is a-- stable, sustainable situation?” asks Ignis after a moment.

 

Noct shrugs. “It’ll...last through saving a rent deposit.” he says. “I’ve got a few other options, too. Guess it’s time to get out of your hair, huh?”

 

He can’t quite meet Ignis’ eyes.

 

Ignis herds him to the table to sit, and for once, sits down in the chair next to him instead of across from him.

 

“If it’s not presumptuous. If there’s anything I can do to help see you through to your preferred outcome,” says Ignis slowly, in a tone he can’t read, looking straight ahead, “I’d be glad to do what I can to be of assistance.”

 

“Thanks,” says Noct, throat feeling thick.

 

He tries to find more words to follow it with, but he doesn’t know what he wants to say. He has no reason to get worked up about this or make it any weirder than it already is. It’s reasonable enough that he get asked to move on, right?

 

He buries his hands in his pockets to try and find something to fiddle with to keep it together for the conversation.

 

After a long pause, in his peripheral vision, he can see Ignis turn to regard him.

 

“What do  _ you _ want?” asks Ignis.

 

Noct takes a sharp breath in. “I kind of like it here.” he admits. “But I get it. It’s time.”

 

Ignis looks away again. “You understand why, right? You’ve-- not been bad company.”

 

“Yeah.” says Noct, still looking forward. “I’m not exactly pulling my weight around here. You’re a good guy. You’ve gone above and beyond for a complete stranger and I-- appreciate it.”

 

“So that’s it, then.” says Ignis. It’s flat. 

 

“Yeah.” Noct repeats, shifting in his chair. “Were...you expecting me to argue?”

 

At his side, Ignis seems to subtly deflate with a sigh. Noct flicks his glance for a moment to watch Ignis rub at his eyes under his glasses with a hand, the gesture somehow making him look younger and more tired.

 

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he says, face drooping into his palm. "I don't know what I was thinking," says Ignis into his hand. "It's not like-- Noct, I can't just  _ keep _ you."

 

Noct's brain catches on the wording-- keep-- and reminds him, for some reason, of the harness and of the rope.

 

At the same time, his fingers catch on something in his pocket that jingles, and he blurts "Why not?" before he can think better of it.

 

“I don’t know,” says Ignis, sounding tired. “Why don’t you tell me?

 

“We haven’t found a lot to talk about.” says Noct. “You’ve-- probably figured out by now that I’m not very useful. We don’t really know each other. And it’s not like I’m paying rent or anything.”

 

“Yes.” says Ignis.

 

“I mean, for all I know,” Noct continues, “I’m really cramping your style here. You’re, uh, kind of a crazy good cook. You keep the place looked after. And you’re--” Noct gestures vaguely at Ignis.

 

Ignis snorts. “Nothing so exciting as what you’re picturing, I’m sure.” he says.

 

“What, like, wine and movies or something is too exciting? That’s something people do in their twenties, right?” says Noct.

 

Ignis is too still next to him again, and he thinks over his words.

 

“You’re--” starts Ignis.

 

“Nineteen.” says Noct.

 

“I-- yes.” says Ignis a little oddly. “As far as I know, a casual night of dinner and drinks with a movie is one of the more common pastimes.”

 

Noct cracks a smile, glancing toward Ignis again without turning his head. “Seriously?” he says.

 

“I suppose I haven’t really done it since college.” murmurs Ignis. His back straightens. “Which is something you should have the opportunity to pursue, if you aren’t already and so desire.”

 

“Hey,” says Noct, holding his hands up, “I plan on it. I just...wanna be sure where I’m going with it before I get started?”

 

He sighs.

 

“Before I grab my things,” he hears himself say, “can I guess why you might have wanted me to argue?”

 

Ignis gives a hum. “If you wish.”

 

There’s a crazy, stupid idea brewing in Noct’s head. He doesn’t even have a good reason for it.  _ And _ it could make things weird.

 

“What I could have to offer.” says Noct, and, not quite as casual as he’d hoped but close, “Companionship.”

 

He feels more than hears the motion of Ignis giving another snorting half-laugh.

 

“I’d been thinking of getting a  _ cat  _ for that, Noct.” he says.

 

Noct’s heart nearly stops from where his brain goes.

 

Instead, he stands carefully, hand still in his pocket. Thinking about it.

 

“Well,” he somehow says as if it’s what he’s been angling at all along, and not a stupid idea getting  _ a whole lot more stupid _ , “let me know if you change your mind,” and he pulls the collar out and sets it on the table before he turns to head for his duffel bag.

 

He can hear Ignis’ chair shove away from the table. “You can’t be serious,” says Ignis.

 

“Why not?” asks Noct, tips of his ears already burning.

 

“Do you know what that  _ could _ signify, in some circles?” asks Ignis.

 

“It’s not even the right style--” Noct starts, turning back toward Ignis again.

 

There’s a strange light in Ignis’ eyes as he looks up at Noct.

 

“So you do know.” he says.

 

“Then  _ you _ know that that,” says Noct, gesturing at the collar, “depends on what negotiations make it mean. I just. Figure I’m worth a try. I’m at least a  _ little  _ more independent and useful than a cat. Less picky eater,” he tries to joke.

 

“Are you a better listener?” asks Ignis a bit caustically.

 

“Sometimes,” says Noct, flicking his gaze to the floor. “It’s not exactly what cats are known for.”

 

Ignis settles back into his chair.

 

He visibly swallows. “There would be a lot of terms to negotiate along the way, if we tried this,” he says, like he can faintly believe he’s saying it, “that you behave yourself and there be safeties and boundaries. And-- nothing sexual. It’s already a situation of uneven power exchange. I think you underestimate how difficult it might be to try and live as a...pet.”

 

“Alright.” says Noct. “I’m offering.”

 

His cheeks burn a bit, as he watches the floor, and Ignis watches him.

 

“If you mean it,” says Ignis, finally, like he can’t believe what he’s saying, “come here and put it on.”

 

It sounds like a challenge.

 

Noct thinks about it, makes the perversely stubborn judgement call that his joints can handle it this time, and goes to his knees. Ignis takes a sharp breath in.

 

His spine actually likes to try and dip into a backbend, shoulderblades curling back, but the hand that’s  _ still _ not ready for the bandages to come off keeps him from moving fluidly. He didn’t expect to be able to try and do something sexy, though; the kind-of-embarrassing short shuffle over is probably more suited to the kind of display he’s supposed to be doing.

 

He takes a chance and settles the bandaged hand, fingers curled in toward the palm, on Ignis’ knee. “You could put it on me.” he says, as if his face isn’t burning.

 

When he looks up, Ignis’ cheeks are a little pink, too, lips parting and teeth peeking, looking hesitant. The soft look slides back into something harder-to-read so fast that he’d think he’d imagined it if it wasn’t seared into his head now.

 

“Hold still,” murmurs Ignis, and Noct obediently freezes, chin lifted and throat bared. The collar jingles as Ignis lifts it.

 

He’s almost glad he’s so nervous, because no sex, Ignis had said, and now is  _ not  _ the time to pop one, thanks.

 

It makes sense that Ignis has big hands, but even then, they’re bigger than Noct expects, and the broad palms and long fingers that brush his jaw and the back of his skull are a little chapped and running hot.

 

Carefully, Ignis makes sure Noct’s hair is free in the back of the little lined loop of leather before his fingertips trace it to one side of Noct’s throat to do the buckle. Noct feels his breath catch in his chest. It’s like the moment is a bubble that he’s scared to burst with any sudden movement, by existing too loud.

 

“You know,” says Ignis in a low rumble, touched with humor, “normally more rules get made  _ before _ things get this far.”

 

There’s more soft chiming from the bell as Ignis adjusts the collar’s position, testing that he can hook two fingers into the band without hurting or choking Noct. Noct’s pulse is, undoubtedly, hammering a steady beat against them.

 

After one last run of his fingers along the edge of the collar, tickling Noct’s throat a little by accident and making it harder to hold himself steady, Ignis’ hands pull away in a quick and inelegant motion that’s at odds with the gentle, dextrous way he’d fastened the collar.

 

It doesn’t hurt, but it does feel strange. Noct is glad the bell isn’t a particularly noisy one, but knows the sound is going to surprise him sometimes when he makes sudden movements.

 

“How is it?” asks Ignis.

 

“It’s fine.” says Noct, hoarsely.

 

He’s not sure where to look or what he’s supposed to do next.

 

Then, he realizes that one hand is hovering over his head like a question.

 

He answers by lowering his eyelids, slowly, and letting his head fall forward the little bit that it can without  _ actually _ ending up in the man’s lap.

 

The weight settles on Noct’s head slow and steady.

 

First, Ignis’ hand gives a hitching start to curve over the back of his head, smoothing his hair down gingerly. Noct’s next breath comes in through his teeth, and he’s caught by surprise by the shivers from the resulting whisper-light pulls at his scalp.

 

When the hand returns not to the crown of his head, but nearer to his hairline, Ignis’ fingertips start to comb through his hair. Blunt nails scratch gently over Noct’s scalp as his hand passes, fingers curling back around the ends of the grown-out layers to give the ends little tugs that send zinging tingles to the base of Noct’s spine.

 

It’s more intensely intimate than he expected, and by the time the petting slows further and turns into Ignis’ hand carding through the hair at the back of his skull, he’s shaking a little, overwhelmed.

 

His eyes flutter the rest of the way open to see Ignis looking thoughtful as his hand withdraws.

 

They each take deep breaths at the same time, Noct slumping back onto his heels and Ignis slumping back into the chair, and they look at each other.

 

His face burns, and he feels kind of like he’s floating. Even if his back and knees are protesting the position he’d been in, he feels almost stoned.

 

He-- hadn’t known it could feel like that. Just for someone to touch his hair.

 

“This could work.” says Ignis.

 

Noct has made the best, most terrible mistake ever. He’s going to  _ die _ . He’s an idiot with a crush and an awful horny boy, and he’s going to be murdered by his own hormones. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes of the new...arrangement...yet.

 

“So.” Ignis clears his throat, and straightens a bit, pressing back into his chair. “I could use a bit of space to make dinner and think about things, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Right,” croaks Noct, and he practically flees to the couch. 

 

He’s not sure where to start in his text to Prompto, but he also kind of can’t wait for Prompto’s reaction. Noct tries to focus on that, and not the currently-nerve-wracking presence of Ignis in the other room, doing something mysterious and magical over a cutting board, as he apparently thinks about what he might ask of Noct as a pet in the future.

 

He tells himself that the not-sexual part should be a relief, not a disappointment, and is probably for the best.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


At work, the numbers swimming in front of his face at his desk, Ignis allows himself to be distracted for a moment by what exactly he’s agreed to. He spent a good portion of the night tossing and turning.

 

Heavens.

 

Noct is going to need somewhere better to sleep. Would he be opposed to a mattress in the loft?

 

Ignis can’t believe that he--

 

It’s a  _ terrible _ idea. A  _ pet _ .  _ Really _ .

 

He stares down at the back of his own hand until he isn’t really seeing it anymore. 

 

Noct’s hair had been so soft.

 

“Ignis,” says Monica patiently.

 

He startles.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “how long have you--?”

 

“Not long.” she says. “It’s about the section of the books I’ve been going over.”

 

Her expression isn’t a positive one.

 

“How bad is it?” he asks.

 

“It’s too clean.” she says. “And--”

 

She hesitates.

 

“Please, continue.” he says.

 

“I could be wrong,” says Monica cautiously, “but they don’t line up to what I remember. I think this confirms that they’ve been cooked.”

 

He stares down at the papers on his desk, thinking. 

 

“I know what our next moves are.” he says. “I’m just not looking forward to announcing it to the team. How familiar are you with following up on receipts?”

 

“You mean confirming them with whoever reported them?” says Monica. “All divisions?”

 

“All divisions.” replies Ignis, steepling his hands.

 

“Ah.” Monica closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Should we be following up on the payroll, as well?”

 

Ignis doesn’t want to think about the amount of legal compensations due and claims in damages-- which the company would be better-positioned to shoulder and reasonably as accountable for as whoever is embezzling the money that  _ he’s supposed to be directing _ \-- in the case of there being significant discrepancy between the reported money paid to the workers and their actual paychecks. 

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he replies, taking a moment to dislodge his glasses a bit and pinch the bridge of his nose. There’s a pinched pain starting like threat of a storm, and he absently remembers that he hasn’t gotten more naproxen.

 

Bloody--

 

“For now,” he adds, “we’ll have to hope for a lucky break with batches of intact receipts that are blatantly frivolous.”

 

The offices are in chaos when he goes out. Phones are ringing; receptionists can’t put them on hold fast enough to get their initial calls resolved. There’s stacks of boxes that are going to have to be moved due to violating fire code and being unwisely too-tall-- but it’s hard to fit them all in any other way.

 

Papers are  _ everywhere _ .

 

He looks at the clock and realizes it’s earlier in the day than he thought. Perhaps he’s also started going home on time out of how this audit makes everything seem to take much longer than usual.

 

Today, he won’t have that luxury. With the brutal workload he’s going to put down and the pace he’s going to have to set, he has to be the one to go home last, to close out the offices and lock up when it’s time, and accomplish enough  _ meaningful _ headway that nobody can say he’s only doing it for show.

 

His conscience won’t allow less. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.

 

“I’ve an announcement,” he says, loud and pitched to carry under the noise, and for one brief, blessed moment not too long afterward, the dizzying processes grind to a halt for a moment as the room comes to attention.

 

“We’re going to have to do it receipt by receipt, people.” he declares. “Every year under review. We’ll want statements and, where possible, signatures--” this elicits the first round of agonized groans from the younger members of the room, which he ignores-- “of whoever brought the receipt in confirming the date, source, and amount. Jared?” he asks, because the man looks like he wants to say something.

 

There’s a moment’s pause, then: “We should start with clusters of expenditures that seem too small.”

 

It takes Ignis longer than he’s comfortable with to process; his first thought is that it’s probably what everyone in the room would like to do the  _ least _ .

 

“You’ve been looking for frivolous expense reports already.” says Ignis.

 

“Well,” replies Jared evenly, “I recognized some receipts from the hotdog cart on the same block.”

 

Ignis stares at him a bit without meaning to.

 

“Did anyone else notice that?” he asks a little weakly. There’s small negative shakes of heads across the room. “How much of this busywork filed is things that were bought within the block? That weren’t likely bought on company expense?”

 

Otis, one of the assistants, raises his hand. “Why would someone want to make it look like a department spent money it didn’t?” he asks.

 

“To hide what they’re pocketing for themselves, I suspect.” replies Ignis. “It’s not unknown for someone to try to inflate their budget for the next quarter with these methods, however, so we must presume foolish negligence until we can prove malice.”

 

“Swapping records out for fakes is pretty malicious.” points out Monica. “Plus whatever’s going on with the payroll. It’s also still criminal to commit financial fraud, no matter what your motive is.”

 

Ignis nods. “You’re right.” he says. “Well. Is everyone ready to play a fun game of cold-calling and counting petty acts of fraud? I’ll pull out a fresh whiteboard for keeping tally.”

 

He thinks he can softly hear even Monica, Dustin, and  _ Jared _ making unhappy noises under their breaths, respectively. 

 

“And to keep each person’s standing order for the cafe downstairs. Keep it short and get a space cleared for food and beverages.” The room perks up. “One spill means a short ban on both within this division’s offices out of the breakrooms. Which,” he adds, taking the time to make brief eye contact with the worst offenders for that sort of thing, “I myself will comply with.  _ Do not test me. _ ”

 

The room bursts back into action again once it’s apparent he’s done speaking. He’s going to have to spring for a coffeemaker for their part of the offices out of pocket, at this rate; the promise of caffeine appears to be boosting morale.

 

“Are we still missing anything?” he asks.

 

“Actually, I haven’t been able to get the financial records from the cafe because the manager with the key’s been out. Sir.” says Myrna. “I was coming to tell you now.”

 

“Ah.” says Ignis. “...I know someone who should be on shift now who would have the key.” he says a bit reluctantly. “I’ll go with you.”

 

_ To be continued _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO MUCH for bearing with the update gap. i've been pining to update this fic so, so hard. i've been sick, had surgery, and had a houseguest all in a short span of time-- and i was screaming inside for most of it because i was so, so close to finishing this chapter, too!
> 
> so as a birthday gift to myself, i've pushed to wrap it up anyway so i can post an update.
> 
> and thank you all again for the wonderful comments so far! each and every one has delighted me.

**Author's Note:**

> i had a few chapters written in advance, but chapter one was missing a scene and is still undergoing some edits. anyway THINGS GONNA GET REAL GAY UP IN HERE and this is turning into some kind of labor of love for me so. RIP me
> 
> shoutout to gareth for having poured countless words of chats into sorting out the fucking audit subplot. my angle, my potato.


End file.
